


Hold Me While I’m Killing You

by SanAnn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanAnn/pseuds/SanAnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Season Three. I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back. (Fic was originally posted on LJ)

 

 

 _Thump. Thump_ . Blood. Blood is everywhere. Sticky and blinding him. _Thump. Thump._ Screams. Pain. _Thump. Thump. Thump_. _Louder and louder_. Dark whispers and screams, fading. _Thump. Thump. Thump._ Heart. His heart is beating. Louder and louder. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

Suddenly, Dean is falling into nothingness, and he screams, opening his eyes. He’s somewhere small. It’s dark and quiet. So quiet. He touches his forehead to wipe off the blood, but there’s nothing. As the screams are fading, leaving the dreadful quietness to swallow him whole, the fear creeps in his heart. Dean screams so loud that his throat hurts and a throb of pain shoots through his head. The trap.  He’s in the trap. He needs to find a way out, to get out before they get him. Get out. Before they find Sam. _Sammy._

When he’s clawing his way out, with dirt falling on his face and covering his eyes, Dean’s heart clenches with fear at the ignorance of the place he’s rushes to. But Dean just sets his teeth and furiously digs his fingers into the dirt above him. _They won’t get him._

With the first intake of breath above the surface comes the understanding that he is closer to Sam than he expects. _Sammy._

 

 

The abandoned church is in the middle of nowhere, protected by the gusty wind raising dust and his fellow travelers - the tumbleweeds.

Inside, a man kneels in front of the altar, raising his hands in what feels like a prayer. His voice is strong and loud, reaching every dark corner of the church.

“Castiel, it’s time for you to take a human form.”

The answers are only for this man to hear, sounding clear in his head.

“I take no orders from a human being.” The voice is emotionless; its purpose to deliver the information.

The man makes a wry mouth. “I’m nowhere close to ordering you. It’s what you need for contacting him.”

“I’ll let this information be considered.” The voice stops and then continues. “Explain to me, why you use your speech instead of talking to me with your mind.” 

The man smirks unkindly, “I’m tired of talking to myself. Sometimes, I need to hear my voice to remember who I am.”

The voice in his head sounds the same despite the interest it showed by asking, “You are strange creature, Samuel Winchester.”

 

 

Dean is riding shotgun in Bobby’s truck, eyes hidden from the sun with one hand, tiredly, trying to shut himself from the sounds and voices. His mind is clouded, and Dean can’t decide which voices that surround him belong to this world and which ones he brought as presents from Hell. But all of them are real, and he can’t wait to shut them away, at least for a moment, finding a peace in Sam’s arms. He only needs to get lost in his brother to feel alive again. The burn of tattoo on his chest is getting less painful and more demanding to be entwined with another one as each mile brings them closer to Sam. 

 

 

Sam stands in front of the mirror, looking at the tattoo on his bare chest. He feels Dean with each minute as he gets closer. Sam closes his eyes and inhales, trying to find his brother’s scent. _Soon. He’s gonna be here soon._ Sam opens his eyes and leans closer to the mirror; he touches the reflection of the tattoo in the mirror, deliberately leaning his palm against it, imagining his brother’s skin under his hands, and painting the picture on the mirror with his fingers, touching and imagining curves and freckles.

The desperation that he was choking on for four months is still stuck in his throat, but it’s less painful. It’s promising to slide away as soon as Dean’s scent fills his nostrils.

Sam can wait. He doesn’t let the tangle of emotions at the thought of seeing Dean come to the surface. He tries to lull their emergence to sleep, keeping them under his skin, feeling them with each breath he takes. It’s not the time. Sam will allow himself to _feel_ when he feels Dean’s pulse beating against his lips.

The voice in his head interrupts his thoughts, unknowingly tactless, deaf to the human’s feelings. “I have to remind you to look surprised when you see him.” 

Sam swallows down the rising bile to keep from snarling that he remembers how to react and settles with “I don’t want any of you around when I see him.”

Silence is his answer, and Sam is grateful for small favors.

He looks around the room for any evidence pointing out at how changed he is now, and then, satisfied, settles down on the bed, stretching his long legs out, balancing the laptop in his lap.

He turns his back to the door, trying to look unprepared for Dean’s appearance and runs through the _welcome, Dean_ scene in his head. The mirror hanging on the left side of the bed has a perfect view of the door, and Sam doesn’t need to turn his head to see Dean. He knows he’ll catch the first glimpse of his brother in this mirror. It’s really pathetic how Sam concentrates on the mirror, forcing it to show his brother _right now_. But in the last four months, he crossed more lines than just being pathetic, so he doesn’t give a damn. Sam waits.

 

 

Dean knocks on the door, with Bobby standing by his side, feeling the support of the man and the shoulder to lean on to if he needs to.  But that’s not what Dean needs.

Instinctively knowing that the door is not locked and refusing to wait for an answer, Dean pushes the door open and stops as his breath catches in his throat. _Sammy._

Sam sits on the bed, and then, he’s turning around to face Dean. At that moment, Dean thinks that the world has stopped spinning or it just might be the end of the world. Dean’s tattoo is burning on his chest trying to say something to Dean, supported by the thunderous beating of his heart, insisting he get closer.

Sam whispers his name like he knows something that Dean doesn’t, and the next moment, he crushes Dean with enough strength to kill him. Bobby is the one to pull Sam away, convincing him that it really is Dean. Dean stares at Sam in confusion, a tiny voice flickers in the back of his mind whispering that Sam’s reaction wasn’t fast enough, that Dean would be dead in a second if Sam wanted. Dean,disinterested, tries to shoo the voice away.  It’s not important. It’s nothing, because, now, Dean is having problems breathing, being smashed against his brother’s solid chest, with the tattoos beating faster than their hearts, and it’s not nearly enough. Sam whispers “Dean” against Dean’s neck, and it’s familiar, it’s how Sam sounds when he’s brokenhearted, and _that_ Dean can relate to.  

 

 

Bobby takes three cool bottles of beer out of the fridge and hands two of them to the brothers as they sit in the silence on opposite sides of the bed while looking at the same meaningless spot on the wall in front of them. He watches them each take a beer from his hands, avoiding looking at each other. Bobby opens his beer and takes one big gulp, sighing with satisfaction, and clears his throat.

“Well, boys, you need to talk, that’s for sure.” He looks up at the guys with an understanding look and moves towards the door. Bobby tries not to pay attention to the thick-with-tension look the boys exchange as he turns to the door. When he was a kid, his father taught him better than to stick his nose in someone else’s business, and it was pretty good advice. “You know where to find me when you’re ready to talk, and the three of us are gonna need to talk.” He turns to look at them to deliver his point.

“See you, boys.” Like his father, John taught his boys good manners as well, as they both stand up to walk him to the door, giving him a tight hug. “Dean. Sam.” Bobby nods to both of them before walking out the door, holding a bottle of beer in his hand.

 

 

Sam closes the door behind Bobby and locks it, feeling his heart pounding in his chest with the fact of _Dean being here._ He wants to turn around and touch Dean, kiss him, fuck him, hold him, dig his fingers into him. Sam is one step away from breaking into million pieces of being closer to Dean and not being able to close the last inches between them. Before Sam can even turn around, his body is slammed from behind. Dean clings to his back, leaning his whole body on Sam and _not letting go_.

“Sam, Sam, Sammy,” Dean chants into Sam’s neck, his lips sucking on his brother’s neck, while his fingernails are scratching the flesh of Sam’s shoulders, making him believe that Dean is really here.

Sam can’t find his voice, the lump in his throat is too big for him to swallow, and he either ends up sobbing like a girl or collapsing down on the floor, or maybe both. But Dean is here, and Sam doesn’t need words. Dean knows; he always does. He tugs Sam backward until they reach the bed in a weird dance of legs, and soon, they're crashing down onto the bed awkwardly in a tangle of limbs. As long as Dean keeps holding him, it’s perfect.

Dean brings Sam’s body closer, caressing him like a baby, moving him, until they lay on the bed face-to-face, and Sam just clings to his brother, holds tightly to any part of the body he can reach. Sam can’t see clearly, his gaze is cloudy, and he feels like a newborn kitten stupidly trying to reach out for the warm body and not knowing what to do next. His hunger for Dean isn’t decreasing, and he’s desperately trying to take everything he can get from Dean before _someone takes him away_.

“Sam, c’mon, Sammy, look at me,” Dean’s soothing voice gets through his blurry mind, and Sam tries to focus on Dean’s green eyes, _Dean’s eyes_ , as Dean’s fingers wipe the tears from Sam’s face, and Sam wonders when he started crying.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here,” Dean insists like Sam doesn’t get it, and Sam desperately nods, digging his fingers into his brother’s shoulders. _He gets it. He knows._

“No. No, Sam. C’mon, you have to trust me.” Dean cradles Sam’s face in his hands, looking inside him, and Sam is mesmerized. He holds his brother’s gaze, sipping in all the emotions Dean has to offer and, finally, going slack in his brother’s arms.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, referring to all the months he had to live without his brother, revealing the truth of how he felt all this time.

“I know,” Dean simply says, bringing Sam even closer, making the tattoos slide against each other, feeling the power of connection even through the layers, his eyes focused on Sam, _not leaving him._

They stay that way for several minutes, and then, Dean is kissing Sam, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. Sam lets him, listening to what it means, not missing a beat of information Dean opens to him. Sam feels as the tattoo on his chest plays under his skin of being closer to Dean’s and then starts drinking in the memories from it.

The grip of resolution tightens Sam’s mind as the truth of what Dean felt, sinks in.  

Sam moves lower, not letting go of Dean, until Sam’s head is on his brother’s chest, until Dean’s heartbeat is a loud thump against his lips.

“Dean,” he says firmly, and he means _mine_ and _they’re gonna pay._      

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sam watches as the lights of the dawn try to sneak into the room through the thick window curtain. He throws an irritated glance towards the window as his hand flies to hover in the air over Dean’s eyes, shielding him from the intruding lights. 

 _Dean has slept for seven hours now,_ Sam notes after glancing at the clock hanging on the wall. For Sam, it was seconds turning into minutes, and after several hours, he lost all sense of time. Somewhere along the way, it all turned into _Dean-being-here_. Sam wraps himself in this feeling, like a warm blanket; his senses are like the quiet waves lapping up against the fresh wood of the boat, of his Dean.   

Sam looks down at Dean sleeping peacefully on his back, with the sheet settled over his lower half. Sam's hand is not enough to protect Dean's sleep from the sun, so Sam gingerly turns Dean over onto his side in order to keep him away from the sun’s rays. 

As Dean starts snoring lightly, a smile appears on Sam’s face. _As if nothing has changed…_  

 

 

Sam’s stomach rumbles, waking him, reminding him that it has been empty for hours, but Sam easily ignores it. He watches absentmindedly for an hour as the room sinks into the darkness, his mind a quiet, comforting place. 

All of the sudden, a scream breaks the silence making Sam’s calming state shatter into tiny pieces.   

“Dean, Dean,” Sam lightly shakes his brother’s shoulder, but Dean is trapped in his own nightmare. He keeps screaming without waking up, and Sam's despair is starting to cloud his mind, his lips move silently _'wake up, please, wake up_ '. 

Suddenly, Dean’s eyes fly open, the fear and shock written all over his face, and Sam swallows his own panic, forcing himself to relax, placing his brother's needs before his own. _Dean needs me._  

Dean looks at Sam for a long moment. His stare is getting calmer, but then something in his eyes shifts, and his stare freezes. After several minutes of complete silence and heavy breathing as Sam tries really hard not to panic, Dean looks aside and stumbles out of bed, throwing the sheet away as if it's to blame. 

Dean steps toward the window and stands still, leaving a dumbfounded Sam behind. 

Sam looks at his brother, his gaze shifting from Dean's tense back to his clenched fists. 

"Dean?" Sam says quietly.  

"Bad dream," Dean states the obvious. 

"How bad?" Sam knows he’s pushing his luck, but he's scared. He needs to know what causes Dean’s pain, to hunt and kill it later. _It's pretty simple these days._

“Sam,” Dean sighs, not turning his back, “just forget it.” 

Sam opens his mouth to start his whole speech, but Dean’s mind works faster. “Sam!” 

Sam hears the finality in his name, but then, Dean turns to face him and says in a soothing tone, “It’s nothing, just forget it.” 

Sam’s mouth twitches as he looks at Dean. 

“For now.” Dean adds, and Sam nods, accepting. _For now._  

 

  

Sam orders in, not wanting to leave the room or drag his brother to some crappy place to eat. He’s not willing to share his brother with anyone, not now.  

By the time a pizza and the six-pack of beer are brought to the door, Dean is occupied on the bed watching some show on TV with a guy running away from the cops. 

Sam tips the delivery guy, and arms full, kicks the door shut with his foot. It earns him a quick glance from Dean, and Sam catches his brother’s questioning look before Dean turns away, mask slipping firmly into place. His rigid posture tells Sam that Dean is trying to pretend as though the look he gave Sam was a figment of his little brother’s _girly_ imagination. 

Sam looks at Dean’s profile, considering his options of getting an honest answer from his brother, but it seems insignificant in comparison with Dean’s state of mind, so Sam lets it go. 

Sam has never had any control over his feelings toward his brother. It was always a wild dance of burning sensations sprouting up from his core, and after understanding it, after his lousy attempt to hide from it in Stanford, it got easier. Now, Sam will simply let Dean get away with anything, as long as it keeps Dean happy.

“So, who’s winning?” Sam flops on the bed next to Dean, and Dean fixes him with a glare and “easy, jumbo”. Sam shrugs unapologetically and turns around to empty his hands onto the bed behind them, taking two bottles of beer for Dean and himself. 

Dean talks like Sam is ten again and teaching him to throw knives, the main rule - patience. “’s not a game, Sammy. It’s a shitty TV show about cops, and according to TV, the cops _always_ win. Now, hand me the pizza, Sammish!” Dean takes the beer from Sam, chuckling to himself. 

Sam smiles back at Dean even though his brother’s attention is back on the TV.  The old nickname reminds Sam of the times when he was a kid, when things were black and white, demons were the bad guys and humans were the good guys, and you knew who you were. Now, there’s only one thing he has to hold on to – Dean. Dean was the ground Sam’s world stood on when he was a kid. _Some things never change._  

They sit in silence as they both try to concentrate on the poor bastard that is unsuccessfully trying to play hide-and-seek with the cops, and they pretend that it’s just one more ordinary day, that Dean didn’t come back from Hell, and Sam doesn’t want to lock them in the room and throw away the key. 

Sam lets Dean eat almost all of the pizza while they finish the pack of beer and fails at keeping his eyes away from his brother. Dean acts like nothing’s wrong, that Sam isn’t trying to burn a hole in him, and Sam is profoundly grateful. Sam thinks he may stay this way forever. 

Dean fidgets next to him, and Sam notices it, frowning, snapping out his bliss. “Sam,” Dean says in a quiet, tired voice as if he’s struggling with himself, turning to face him, “How did you bring me back?” 

The unexpected question doesn’t give Sam enough time to build the lie, to postpone the truth. The oxygen leaves Sam’s lungs, and he tries to calm his breathing and force his mind to come out with the half-truth and hold off Dean’s inevitable storming out. 

“I know you had something to do with it,” Dean continues matter-of-factly, but Sam hears loud and clear Dean’s desperate, “Don’t you tell me that you made a deal with a demon.” 

And Sam wants to laugh. He’s gone much further than just dealing with demons. He always knew Dean wouldn’t approve it, and sitting here now, when he’s got his hands dirty with angels and demons, Heaven and Hell, with the mess just getting started, and Sam being the reason, he doesn’t give a damn. Dean is here. 

“I didn’t sell my soul, Dean,” Sam says, and it’s truth. It’s what Dean wants to know, and Sam is not lying to him about that. 

Sam leans in to brush his finger across the arch of Dean’s cheekbone. Dean’s eyelashes flutter, and Sam hesitates for a second, his mind tries to break through to him, reminding him that _no, it’s not his imagination, no more imaginary Dean_ , and Sam surrenders, throwing up the white flag. 

“Dean”, he whispers into Dean’s mouth before devouring his mouth. It’s been too long, way too long, and Sam can’t stop the despair and lonelinessfrom seeping into his kisses, urging him to bite Dean’s lips, making Dean bleed into Sam’s mouth to color their kiss with metallic taste and red paint. 

They fall down on the bed, smashing the empty pizza box and pushing it away. The thumps of their hearts and the tattoos are getting stronger, the loud beat of it is deafening. They’re cutting themselves off from the world, drowning in each other, surrounded by the loud drumming, giving in to the entanglement of lust and longing. 

It feels like breaking the first sin, it feels like giving birth to love. 

   

 

Dean wakes up to the sounds of raindrops violently beating against the windows. The room feels cold, and Dean shivers under the blanket, missing the warmth of Sam’s body. For a second, he’s tempted to cover himself with the blanket from head to toe and go back to sleep. 

 _Sammy?_ Dean blinks his eyes open to find Sam sitting on the bed close to him, legs crossed underneath his body. 

The minute Dean’s focus is clear, he feels the thick tension that fills the room, and he doesn’t know if it is from the anger with which the rain lashes the windows, wanting to drown the whole world or from Sam’s piercing gaze that is fixed on Dean’s naked shoulder. 

“Sam?” Dean asks baffled, moving to sit up against the headboard, blanket sliding down. 

“What is it?” Sam darkly spits out the words and brushes his fingers over the mark on Dean’s shoulder as if it’s some nasty alien slug. 

“You tell me,” Dean answers steadily, crossing his arms and eyeing his brother carefully, sensing the unspoken truth hanging in the air. Sam clearly _forgot_ to fill some holes of his coming back, and Dean is serious about getting some honest answers. 

“He marked you. The bastard marked you.” Sam chokes on his own anger. 

A tiny shudder runs through Dean’s body. Dean blames the freezing room and not the force with which his brother’s fingers are digging into his shoulder. 

Sam is unconscious of it, focusing on the mark. His fingers are scratching Dean’s shoulder trying to wipe off the offensive mark. 

“Sam!” Dean shouts, catching his brother’s wrist. 

Sam glances up at Dean, his eyes give away the tangled up hurt and intransigence. 

“Care to explain yourself?” Dean asks in a guarded voice, taking control of his growing anger. He gives Sam one last chance before he starts shouting. And God help him, his patience is slipping away. 

“Castiel,” Sam breathes out. 

And Dean doesn’t like the name. He’s pretty sure it’s not a name a human would be given. 

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Dean grabs Sam by the shoulders wanting to shake him hard. Instead, he just tightens his grip hoping that Sam will understand how close he is to getting his ass kicked, “No demons, you said.” 

Sam looks away, and Dean doesn’t find it assuring at all. “Castiel is not a demon.” 

“Then, who the fuck is he?” Dean snaps, frustrated at receiving the unexpected answer. His mind is already at work processing the new information. Dean wonders how bad it is, is there any way to get Sam off the hook, and what does it have to do with all the whispers he heard in Hell. 

“He’s a servant of the Lord.” Sam answers with a strained smile, and Dean doesn’t find it funny. 

Dean studies Sam’s face, searching for the details that Sam could willfully leave out, and comes up empty, “Come again?” 

“He’s an angel, Dean.” Sam rubs his hand over his face, sighing. His face is set in a stubborn gaze when he meets Dean’s eyes. 

Sam continues in a mocking voice, “Big, bad demons couldn’t do shit to bring you back. They didn’t want to do it, no matter which ways I exploited to help them change their minds.” He laughs bitterly. “So, I just had to find another way. Any way would do.” 

“Sammy,” Dean fights the urge to bring his brother closer and kiss away the lines of hurt on Sam’s forehead. He stays frozen, the words wanting to come out of his mouth are useless, and he prefers to listen to what else Sam has stored in that head of his. 

“Don’t make me to lie to you and say that I’m sorry, that I didn’t know what I was doing.” Sam’s jaw tightens. Dean has witnessed this before; he knows that Sam is well on his way to getting pissed. “I know nothing comes free, especially from higher powers, but I dare them to come and take you away from me one more time, and we’ll see…” 

Sam’s eyes darken with rage, and as Dean looks at Sam’s almost pitch black eyes on a face painted over with revenge, he startles with fear, uncontrollably. Dean blinks trying to chase away the image. _It’s just Sammy, his Sammy._  

“Sammy,” he says reaching up and touching his brother’s lips with his own. The feeling of Sam’s warm lips against his own helps, it gives him the solid ground, the proof that it’s _them_ even if they’re shattered into pieces and some pieces are not as pure as they used to be. 

When they kiss, when Dean’s tongue explores Sam’s mouth, all the thoughts about demons and angels shut down, and going with the high that comes with how good it feels, loving Sam’s taste in his mouth, Dean _doesn’t give a damn_ about anything else.

Sam breaks the kiss to look into Dean’s eyes. “They can’t have you. I refuse to let them have you.” Sam whispers as if he’s sharing a secret, as if Dean doesn’t know. And Dean knows Sam means more, he means killing if he has to, he means hell on earth if he has to. Dean closes his eyes, not wanting Sam to see the pain in his eyes or to reveal the ugly truth that Dean has accepted the way they are a long time ago.   

 

  

Later, they fuck on the dirty sheets, with Sam being needy and begging for _harder_ and _please_ , and Dean locks all the gentle feelings towards his brother in his mind’s closet, pressing Sam’s face in the pillow and fucking his ass in earnest, leaving bruises, and then coming inside of Sam.

When Dean slides off of Sam and falls down to lie beside him, when Sam snuggles closer to kiss Dean’s closed eyelids, Dean can’t think of any other pure thing that anyone could witness. 

 

  

Sam is showering with the bathroom door open, and Dean lets him have it, noising in the room as much as possible, allowing Sam to hear him even through the running water. _I don’t want to think that you’d disappear once I let you out of my sight, Dean._  

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and a woman’s voice declares “housekeeping”. They’ve never stayed in a room that provides such service, so Dean calls out “in a minute”, pulling out the knife from the bottom of Sam’s bag and hoping that it’s something that can be killed with a knife, throwing a glance toward the bathroom before opening the door. 

What Dean finds behind the door is a cute, tiny brunette smiling up at him, unarmed. Dean registers the short, boyish haircut and well-toned body when he lets her in and then proceeds to slam her against the wall, bringing the knife up to hold against her neck. 

“Good to see you, too, Dean.” The girl keeps smiling at him. 

Dean smiles back, cold-blooded, pressing the knife a bit harder **,** cutting deeper, making red drops paint her pale skin. “Sorry, I don’t remember being introduced to you, sugar.” 

Girl doesn’t even flinch; a mocking smile curls at her lips. “My feelings are hurt, Dean, as I remember you being kinky and all…” She cocks an eyebrow at him. 

Sam chooses this moment to come out of the bathroom. Dean hears Sam’s approaching steps and expects him to get the picture and not to do anything stupid as Dean’s whole attention concentrates on the girl in front of him.                                                          

“Dean,” Sam makes his name sound like four syllables of remorse, and some of Dean’s attention slips to his brother. He darts a glance towards him and back, still holding the girl in place. 

“You know her?” Dean asks, trying to keep the indignation out of his voice and not let his feelings push the knife deeper and slit her throat. 

“Meg,” Sam asks, voice dripping with irritation and displeasure, “why did you come _here_?” He comes closer to stand beside his brother, and Dean hopes that Sam will keep some distance as his fists are itching to speak for him, for being fucked over, for being lied to, once again, by Sam.

 “Well, you don’t write, you don’t call. What else is a girl to do?” Meg keeps her mocking gaze locked on Dean, though she answers to Sam. 

“Meg!” Sam commands, his voice is colder than the blade against her throat. And that makes the girl twitch. 

Dean stares in astonishment, catching the flicker of the fear in her eyes before she gets a grip on herself and turns to look at Sam. 

Meg’s voice is filled with insistence when she speaks. “Now that you have your brother back, Sam, it’s time to talk about bringing back mine.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean slowly takes the knife away from Meg’s throat and half turns to meet his brother’s eyes. 

“Forgot to fill me in on some details, huh?” Dean’s voice is balanced and calm. 

Sometimes Dean is like the unseen weather that gets eerily quiet right before the storm, gathering his strength before attacking. 

Now, Sam looks through his brother’s carefully constructed walls and finds anger and fear, a hint of betrayal that lays hidden from everyone but Sam to see. 

And Sam has to make sure that Dean is not a vessel to contain these feelings. Sam blinks and comes closer to Dean, not tearing his eyes away from him. Sam puts his palm flat against Dean’s tattoo, feeling the heat of Dean’s skin through the layers, the loud pounding of his heart combined with the racing beat of the tattoo. 

For a moment, Sam thinks he can feel the blood pumping through Dean’s veins, red and thick. 

Dean slowly, ever so slowly, exhales, and his breath hitches. He looks at Sam and closes his eyes, and Sam follows him into the dark, closing his eyes as well. 

It’s a comforting darkness with the sensation of Dean surrounding him. Even through the layers, Dean’s skin under Sam’s palm feels smooth, familiar and _so Dean_. 

Sam presses his palm harder, trying to smooth the waves of anger and discontent that comes from Dean. He shuts his eyes tighter, trying to concentrate on Dean’s feelings, to let him know, make him understand what Sam feels. 

Sam’s negotiating skills and his ability to convince people to listen to him was always his strong suit. It has helped him to get through his school years while bouncing from one place to another, through Stanford. Unfortunately, it has never worked on Dean. Words are never enough for Dean. 

Ironically, now Dean is the only reason for Sam to use his skills. 

Sam focuses on calming his own breathing, coaxing Dean to follow his lead. Then, Sam takes notice of every move of Dean’s skin against his palm, anticipating any change. 

After a few moments, Dean’s heartbeat is getting quieter, and Sam can’t wait any longer. He opens his eyes, anxious to see the proof of the changes with his own eyes. Dean opens his eyes at the same time, and Sam watches as the anger in his eyes fades away, replaced by warmth and love, so much love that, all of the sudden, Sam wants to close his eyes again, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions. 

The fear passes within a second, and Sam looks back, letting Dean see and take everything Sam has to offer. 

Dean studies him, eyes bright, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and it feels _right._ That is the only way Dean should look. Happy and stupidly in love, and so beautiful that Sam can lose himself in his brother. 

The thought is burning fiercely in the back of Sam’s mind, smugly reminding him that he can give Dean everything, much more than just the world on a platter. In answer, Sam notices, absentmindedly, that it’s not what his Dean needs. 

Unexpectedly, Sam hears a gasp coming from his right side, and he turns in confusion to find Meg. The recognition in her eyes mixes with understanding, and Sam watches her, unkindly, his eyes turning into the slits. 

He takes a step toward her, his movements smooth and fast. What she saw, it was only for the two of them to have, and he’s not willing to share _them_ with anyone else. 

Sam tries to stand one step closer to her than Dean, but not in front of his brother. He knows better than to act like he’s shielding Dean; truth to be told, he is, but Dean won’t be happy accepting the fact. 

Sam feels Dean’s tension without looking back. At the moment, his hunter’s habits must be screaming to kill a demon without asking any questions, and there’s only one obstacle between Dean and Meg. It’s Sam, and Dean won’t make a move until Sam is out of harm’sway. 

Sam keeps looking at Meg. The tension doesn’t do anything but help to deepen his scowl, and he just wants her gone. 

Meg tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glares at Sam. “A deal is a deal. You _will_ help me to bring my brother back”. As she states her demand, Sam looks at her. A frown crosses his forehead as he catches a glimpse of despair and something else that he can’t identify in her eyes, and it’s pretty damn unnerving until he gets why. 

She reminds him of someone. His mind recalls the flashing images with the same look in the eyes, the ones he saw each time he took a look in the mirror: Sam-four months earlier, Sam-two months earlier, Sam-yesterday, the same dead to the world Sam – Sam-without-Dean. 

He takes a long, hard look at her, watching as the understanding sinks in, the despair in her eyes changes to hope with a side of suspiciousness. 

She knows he’ll help. At the moment, it’s good enough for her. 

Meg leaves without looking back.

 

  

Dean doesn’t look at Sam. He hasn’t said a word since Meg left, and Sam accepts it, knowing he deserves it. 

Unfortunately, the part of him that beats loudly in his chest doesn’t get it; his silly, uncomprehending heart is torn up, feeling unsure and rejected. 

Sam sits on the edge of the bed, intently watching as Dean flips through the channels on the opposite bed. The heavy silence is starting to get to Sam, but he waits for Dean to make a first move. 

Abruptly, Dean turns the TV off, stands up to put his leather jacket on, and turns to face Sam. 

Sam’s stomach drops, and he fails at keeping the panic out of his voice. “You’re going somewhere?” It’s stupid. Of course he is. _But this can’t be happening._ Sam’s heart can’t quiet down. 

“I need to take a walk,” Dean shoves his hands deep in his jacket pockets and looks away. 

Sam’s heart falters. _No, you don’t, NO._  

He tries to catch Dean’s eyes. _Gotta know what’s on his mind_. But Dean is studiously avoiding his stare. 

“Where?” Sam asks hollowly, feeling miserable and stupid. He tries to get his heartbeat under control and to balance his fears and trust in Dean like a house of cards, but he’s afraid it will come tumbling down the moment Dean steps out the door. _It’s too soon._  

Sam’s eyes cast down, folding his hands in his lap. He doesn’t want to hear a needless answer; he wants Dean to be here, to stop leaving him. 

“Sam,” Dean offers gently taking a step closer to his brother. Sam glances up to meet Dean’s confident and firm look. Sam would believe it if not for Dean’s hand jingling the keys in his pocket. 

“I was going for more booze and a local newspaper. Have to catch up with the news, Sammy.” Dean says half smiling, eyes serious. 

The words fail to keep some resemblance of truth. They fall between them, odd and out of place, and they both notice it, eyes locking. 

But it’s just Dean shielding himself, not lying to his brother, and Sam is not gonna call him on it. 

Sam sighs, carrying the need to set words free as the burning inside becomes almost unbearable, “Stay - just stay.” 

He manages to not choke on the words and to restrain himself from clutching at Dean and not letting go.  

Not taking his eyes away from Sam, Dean comes even closer, nudges Sam’s knees with his own until Sam spreads his legs allowing Dean to stand between them. 

Sam has to tilt his head back to look at his brother. Dean’s hazel eyes are so close, inspecting him, searching for some answer. 

Dean seems satisfied with what he finds as he reaches out to squeeze Sam’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“ _You almost did_.” Sam’s answer is covered up by a small sigh he breathes out. 

“Hey, you have to let me go sometimes, y’know, like to get drunk or to take a piss after.”  Dean hides behind the cocky smile. _I can take care of myself_ hangs heavy in the air between them, and Sam can’t hold the pressure anymore. He looks down, eyes closed, trying to get a grip of himself. 

He clenches his teeth in attempt to prevent himself from spilling his heart out loud, _they sent you to hell, Dean, and I had to live without you, and I can’t bare it anymore._  

Instead, he settles with a simple “Not without me,” and he hopes that Dean will take the suffocating words out of his throat and hear him. 

Dean is silent, moving to cradle Sam’s face with his hands, forcing Sam to tilt his head and look into Dean’s eyes. 

“Yeah, ‘kay. Got it, Sammy.” Dean says in hoarse voice, without any hint of smile, and bends down to kiss Sam.

 

  

The hours are passing by as they both lay in bed in complete silence with Sam’s back to Dean’s front, Dean’s hand possessively tight on Sam’s stomach, Dean’s soft breathing against Sam’s neck. 

The blanket fails to cover them completely, but the heat of their bodies is enough to make their temples glisten with beads of sweat. 

Sam lays with eyes open, arm covering Dean’s hand on his stomach, intently listening to Dean’s heartbeat after losing count somewhere around two thousand and four thumps.  

Dean is asleep, his quiet breathing a safe leader for Sam’s breath to follow.  

Dean’s heartbeat starts lulling Sam back to sleep when the familiar voice speaks to him. “Time to fulfill your promise, Sam.” 

Sam shuts his eyes tight, trying to shield himself from the intruding voice by mentally voicing his displeasure towards the source of the voice. 

“I find your behavior unacceptable. We expect you to follow through with our arrangement.” Castiel’s voice is flat, but Sam is not deluded by the tone of it. When it comes to angels, the words are what he needs to concentrate on, not the emotions. He would give it more thought if his mind wasn’t fixed only on one creature of a God. 

Sam answers without opening his mouth, careful not to disturb Dean, “I’ll give you what you want, no need to force me into it-” He pauses for a second and continued dryly, “considering how unsuccessful the try would be.” 

Castiel’s voice is stronger, “You are forgetting one thing, Sam. I was the one who dragged your brother out of hell, and I can easily-” 

Sam doesn’t let him finish, the instantaneous fury inside him lets out a loud scream towards the voice, towards the darkness the voice came from, and his body begins to shake lightly under the pressure of the violent force he passes through himself. 

The blow he receives in answer is powerful and unexpected. The pain shoots through him, and Sam curls in on himself for a moment, gasping. The dark oblivion threatens to swallow him, and Sam fights back against his own body, his shell, for not blacking out while meeting another attack from Castiel. 

“Sammy, what is it? Sammy!” Dean comes into his view, and Sam is immediately grasping Dean’s shoulder for support. 

“We just need you to be reasonable, Sam.” Inside his head Castiel states as if he’s not trying to slaughter Sam like a wild animal. 

Sam concentrates on fighting back, collecting his strength, but, startlingly, Dean is the one to answer, “Leave him the fuck alone”. Dean screams into emptiness of the room, watching Sam, eyes wide in panic. 

Sam’s senses sharpen, and suddenly, there’s need and desire for _Dean_ coming from every cell of his blood. He looks at Dean and finds the same wild urge in his eyes. 

Dean covers Sam’s body with his own, leaving no inch between. For a moment, there’s only the sensation of blood pumping and tattoos beating out the same rhythm. And then, they share the same breath, mouths finding each other.  

And it happens. The unnatural, primal strength from the depth of their bodies comes to the surface, hanging in the air above them, then flashing for seconds, lighting up the room, and disappearing into the air, destroying all the sounds around them. 

They break the kiss to look at each other, eyes wide open; their hard breathing is the only companion of the silence.


	4. Chapter 4

When you’re nineteen and horny and can’t take your girlfriend out to a movie premiere on Friday night when all of your friends are going, and it makes her bitch at you for a half hour with the promise of not getting any in the near future, because your _perfect_ job behind a motel counter is more important than her, your life officially sucks.    
  
An hour later, when your best entertainment is to count the cracks on the ceiling, your life still sucks. As you dream about coming back home and having some private time with the latest issue of Maxim, something weird happens. At first, you hear the screams and weird noises, and then, something in the air shifts, and it gets eerily quiet.  
  
As you look around the lobby, confused and dumbfounded, trying to register any change, the annoyance starts to creep into you. You’re sure as hell this has something to do with that tall, weird guy.   
  
Thing is, this guy checks in a week ago, and suddenly, it takes two minutes for every potential client to change their minds about staying here. And maybe you are overreacting, as your girlfriend has pointed out, but you saw _The Silence of the Lambs_ ; you know a psycho when you see one.   
   
Then, the shorter guy moves in with him, and loads of money is shoved down your throat by the tall guy to not disturb them. As if you’re dumb enough to do anything to piss this guy off.    
  
The shorter guy hasn’t come out of the room, and you suspect him dead and cut into pieces by his roommate, if not for the screams and headboard smashing against the wall loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. And if this guy is crazy enough to get involved with the bat-shit crazy lover of his, it’s not your problem.   
  
So, now, you try to listen for any disturbing sound that may come, but nothing happens. You relax, sighing, and say into the emptiness of the room, “My life totally sucks.” And it does, royally, as you stay gaping like a fish, because no sound is coming from your mouth. _Oh, fuck._  
  
  
  
  
Dean sits on a bed beside his brother and screams out loud, straining his ears in attempt to indicate, at least, the squeak of his voice, but the deafening silence laughs at him, stretching and spreading its force over the room.    
  
Dean moves away from Sam, uneasy and rushed, eyes looking everywhere but at his brother’s face, and tries to get his breathing under control, sitting on the edge of bed and counting from one to ten and back, eyes fixed on the wall.   
  
It takes a couple minutes for the fear and confusion to lay low, and Dean briefly wonders if a person can explode without letting his emotions out.   
  
Dean darts a look toward the window, feeling the burn of Sam’s eyes on his skin. Dean catches sight of birds flying and playing, wings flapping, and he swears he can see them singing, but there’s _no sound._ No sound at all. It’s like the half of the world is hidden from him, and he’s the one left to the empty nothingness. Alien to the world. Seems like hell found new ways to reach out for him.  
  
Something close to a hysterical cry escapes his throat, and he cringes, anticipating hearing it out loud, but there’s nothing, just a puff of air and a shot of pain through his heart.  
  
God, he wants to scream out loud, to strain his lungs and let it all out, to let his heart scream for him, to demand the answers from someone, from Sam. _Damn, Sam owns him one hell of an explanation_. But there’s just a silence eating up the room, greedy to swallow Dean’s questions and Sam’s answers.  
  
Dean turns to look at Sam, turning his whole body to meet Sam’s gaze with an open and challenging gaze of his own. Dean’s anger is flaring on the surface and shielding the confusion that is hidden under his many layers.   
  
Sam looks straight at Dean, not holding back. Then, he swallows as if something is stuck down his throat and it’s hard to breathe, and Dean can almost taste the soreness of his brother’s throat. His gaze follows Sam’s every movement.   
  
Sam opens his mouth, lips moving, letting air ghost over his lips as he fights to frame a word. Dean recognizes his name in an instant, catching the shape of it before it fades away. Sam stubbornly repeats it one more time, his lower lip involuntary trembling. The third time, it comes with tears shining in Sam’s hazel eyes.  
  
The fourth time is better; Dean’s name is a silent cry against Dean’s cheekbone, wet trails against his skin. Dean tries to catch Sam’s tears with his lips, take away the insulting weight of it and make them fade away, erasing the memory of it from Sam’s skin.   
  
  
  
  
The stretching silence devours everything around making the world shrink to the size of the room, proclaiming the words overrated and useless.   
  
When Dean enters Sam, no preparation, no teasing, just an urge to be in him, to possess each cell of his body, his skin burns with the restrained feeling. His blood thumps in his veins angrily, demanding to take control over the silence.   
  
Dean’s body knows only one way out of it. Dean digs his fingers into his brother’s slim hips, lifting them, pulling almost all the way out and slamming into his brother with a muted grunt.   
  
Sam opens his mouth, eyes wide and open, and arches his back, inviting to take him deeper.    
   
Dean’s second thrust is rougher, words rushing through his skin into Sam’s. _What have you done to yourself?  
  
_ Sam sobs silently as another thrust follows unexpectedly fast. _What the hell did you do, Sammy?_  
  
Dean doesn’t let Sam find comfort in touching Dean. He slaps Sam’s hand away, gripping his brother’s wrists tightly one with one hand, pinning them above Sam’s head.    
  
The next several thrusts are hurried questions, outranging each other. _Were the whispers about you in hell were true? Were they right about me? Who are you now? Who am I? What did they do to us?_  
  
The thrusts become frantic, and the world spins around them, pressing them with its weight.  
  
Dean comes first, he fills Sam completely and pulls out to paint Sam’s ass with his rest of his come.   
  
As Sam opens his mouth to beg silently, Dean sucks on his own fingers and then pushes three of them into Sam’s ass, watching Sam intently while hitting his prostate over and over again. It doesn’t take long for Sam to grab hold of Dean by his hair, pulling his brother’s head down to cover his mouth in a rough kiss and finally shoot on both their bodies.   
  
As they both lie trembling, Dean is a solid weight on Sam’s body; Sam summons all his strength to wrap his hands around his brother.   
  
  
  
  
One state away from Winchesters, there is an old house on the side of the road near the filling station, dark and silent. The clacking sounds of the grasshoppers’ wings are the only sounds to disturb the peaceful night.    
  
On the second floor of the house, inside the bedroom, a man in mid-30s, the proud owner of the filling station, lies on a bed, convulsing. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, his throat is cut open and the blood is painting the snow white sheets underneath him.   
  
The clock on the wall is ticking quietly, striking 2:00 a.m.   
  
The bed dips as Meg sits down next to the man. An irritated line crosses Meg’s forehead as she casually pushes away the man’s hand without looking back at him in order to sit properly.   
  
Meg concentrates on a goblet in her hands, smiling warmly as she starts to swirl the blood with her finger.   
  
The moon through the window lights her form as she chants in Latin, the blind faith and devotion are evident upon her face. The man’s rattle accompanies the chanting, coloring her words with death’s signs.    
  
The minutes pass by, and the rattle stops. The Latin words are the only sounds left to fill the room.   
  
The wind is kissing Meg’s lips as she pauses, and after, it takes away one word from Meg’s mouth, “Brother.”   
  
Meg slowly pulls out her index finger from the goblet, blood dipping from the painted-black nail. She tilts her head to the side to catch the drops of the blood with her tongue, and then, places the finger between her pink lips licking away the blood.  
  
“Tom.” she whispers, eyes black. She sits on the bed in silence, unmoving, watching the sun rise.  
  
As the sun light breaks through the window in a useless try to warm up Meg and the lifeless body behind her, exposing the blood stains on the sheet, Meg closes her eyes and lets out a little sigh.   
  
  
  
  
Another morning for Bobby starts with a call from his fellow hunter.   
  
Bobby pulls the covers away, rolling out of bed, and half-blindly reaches for his cap, pulling it on, before reaching for his cell phone on the night stand.   
  
It’s not the alarm clock to wish for, and there’s no snooze button. Though he’s not one to complain, he has experienced worse substitutions for a wake up clock.    
  
As Bobby’s mind concentrates on the received information and processes the facts, he steps into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.   
  
As it turns out, some strange activity was registered in the south where a couple of towns went silent for hours, with TV cables and phone lines switched off, and people unable to hear each other.  
  
Bobby finishes the talk and sips his coffee, looking out the window, wondering what wheels are working and how fast he can reach one of the named towns and visit the Winchester boys. _Damn! Boys._   
  
  
  
  
Sam’s voice returns to him when Dean fucks him for the third time in a row, and Sam is too fucked out to register his own _please_ coming out in a whisper.  
  
Through blurry eyes, Sam watches as Dean keeps pounding into him, rough and merciless, not easing up, and Sam thinks that his heart might stop any minute, but his fingers tug at Dean’s hair, bringing him closer, while turning his head aside and purposely exposing his neck for Dean’s bites and licks.   
  
Sam hisses as Dean catches sensitive skin with his teeth, burning the mark into Sam’s neck and not bothering to lick away the pain.   
  
Sam’s legs are almost sliding off Dean’s slick with sweat shoulders. Sam tries to concentrate on clutching onto his brother, but Dean is the one to keep Sam in place, in one piece. Dean’s body is pressing Sam’s down, come and sweat are the combined mess between their bodies, and Dean is like a constant owner of Sam’s body, keeping him from breaking apart until Dean lets him fall into million pieces for Dean to pick up.   
  
When they both come, unexpectedly crying out loud, they find their own voices alien and strange, intruding on the bubble they locked themselves into.   
  
After, they lay in silence on the bed, bodies close to feel the heat of the other’s body, but not close enough to touch, sated and worn out, both more than willing to postpone the inevitable questions.   
  
When the silence changes, taking the intense notes, starting to separate them, Dean turns his head wanting to catch Sam’s every expression, and offers a peace for both of them.   
  
“The voice I’ve heard when-”, Dean starts, eyes fixed on Sam. In the back of his mind, he registers that the world is filling with sounds, but the most important thing is still here, with him.   
  
“Castiel,” Sam helps him, turning on his side to face Dean properly, the bed dipping under his weight.   
  
Dean’s forehead wrinkles with lines of confusion. And Sam is the only one who has the right to witness Dean lost and uncertain. “How could I - Was I suppose to hear him?”  
  
“No,” Sam answers straight away. “And I don’t know how or why it happened.”   
  
Dean believes, without a doubt, that Sam is sincere, but the fog in his head isn’t clearing. “What is he doing visiting your head?”  
  
Sam winces but doesn’t take his gaze away from Dean. “It’s the angels’ way of controlling my actions.”  
  
Dean considers Sam’s answer. Knowing what a stubborn son of a bitch his brother is, something is definitely wrong with that. Dean gives Sam with a doubtful look, “Huh. Does it work?”  
  
And predictably, the smug smile spreads across Sam’s face. _Bastard_. “No, but they believe it is.” 


	5. Chapter 5

At night, the streets of New Orleans are lit up by the bars' neon signs and streetlights, shedding the lights of joy and easiness. But the dark corners hold the memories of the past, secrets rising from the ashes.

If it's not Mardi Gras or Jazz Festival season, there are less tourists inspecting the streets, hanging out in the bars, denying their real lives, hiding behind the lamplights and beer bottles.

The hookers and fortune tellers are your best friends, saying and acting the way you want them to. A small loss of cash is not a big price to pay for finding someone who knows you _so well_.

The neon sign proclaiming _Find out your destiny_ flickers as Meg opens the door and steps in.

The inside is darker than outside, the minimal light provided by the trays of candles scattered sparsely around the room.  The candles burn unsteadily, throwing dim shadows dancing on the walls.  

Each steady step Meg makes, the dancing shadows convulse with fear and send a silent warning to their mistress in the next room.

Meg is greeted before she pulls aside the thick red curtain for entering another room.

“Don’t you think you’re tempting your fortune by coming here, Meg?” The deep voice belongs to an old black woman that sits on the floor covered with the thick carpets. The candle in front of her illuminates her form as she bends forward to light a cigar.

Meg steps in, half-smiling, and looks down at the woman, huffing in disbelief, “Isn’t that what you provide poor bastards with by taking their lucky fortune away instead of reading their future?”

The woman ignores the accusation and takes a long draw on the cigar, looking at Meg from head to toe. Meg suppresses the irritation and meets her eyes, unblinking, cautious, trying to catch every tiny movement.

A slow grin starts spreading on Meg’s face. The face of the old woman is not covered enough in the darkness to hide her worry.

“You are not welcomed here. Locals are dying to get their hands on you, and I won’t be the one to stop them,” she says, fixing Meg with a glare and blowing out smoke.

The darkness surrounds them both, and one tiny light between them threatens to die out and to leave it to the darkness to decide which one is worthy of its attention. Meg secretly craves complete darkness, the one thing that is friendly and familiar to her.

When the candle’s light decides to dance upon the old woman’s face, the candle’s flame is a poor challenger to woman’s pitched black eyes.

Meg’s patience is slipping, and she struggles to keep a firm grasp on what little remains, not letting theanger take control over her. It’s hard without _him_. Tom had a leash for her emotions.

Memories of Tom are a trigger for the ticking time bomb she has turned into. The red tips of flaming rage tickle her insides, begging to spout out lava. _This ungrateful world has no idea how much it owes Tom. Now that he’s gone, it’s fair enough that this blindfolded world know the price of being without him._

“Tell me what I came here for.” Meg’s voice changes to a barely controlled whisper.

“I can feel your power getting stronger without looking at you. Why didn’t you just write me a letter?!” The old woman laughs loudly, the cigar ash falls on the floor agreeing with her mockery.

Meg comes closer, the color of her eyes match the old woman’s. “I suggest you not fuck with me, Missouri. I’m not John, and I certainly won’t listen to your shit.” Meg’s next step brings her close enough to step on the woman’s dress. “Tell me, is it enough?!”

Missouri raises her voice and then, there are angry whispers filling the room, accompanying her. “Why don’t you give it a try like you did before? You think bringing Katrina on our heads wasn’t enough?”

Meg answers without missing a beat. “Do you see Tom somewhere near me? That’s your answer, woman. It isn’t.”

The whispers are getting stronger, and suddenly, there’s a wind rising from the floor and starting to howl. “Your father wouldn’t approve of it.”

Meg has to raise her voice to be heard. “Like I give a shit about the old man. He’s dead.”

“Just like your brother.” The words cut an open wound that has never stopped bleeding, and Meg flinches unwillingly. “You can’t give life to dead demon. You think there’s something left of him to bring back? There’s nothing.”

It’s not a revelation; it’s not like she hasn’t asked herself the same question. Each failed attempt of bringing her brother back pushed her down, turning her into a useless sobbing mess with ashes for hopes, an unpleasant shadow of the old Meg.

 _But now, it’s different_. The smirk returns to Meg’s face. She stretches like a cat, smiling and eyeing the woman like a canary. “I can’t. But there’s someone who can.”

The wind gets stronger; it ruffles Meg’s hair and brings dust trying to cloud her vision.

Missouri’s exclaims proudly, “Sam Winchester was born for bigger things than to bring your brother back.”

Meg moves, and her right hand tightens around Missouri’s neck. Her voice is bitter when she speaks, “You think _daddy_ wouldn’t approve me messing with his plan?! What can be bigger than bringing Tom back? It’s pretty big to me.”

The old witch finally shuts her mouth, and Meg enjoys every minute of it, tempted to squeeze the neck tighter just to hear a bone crack. She’d never get what is so fascinating about wearing this old suit, but the knowledge of how much this body is appreciated gives her power. And it’s always about the power.

The wind and whispers stop, and the candle flames follow them, dying out. The darkness and complete silence welcome Meg, bringing a thankful smile to her face.

It feels like home. Darkness is the demons’ zone, their world, the place where humans don’t belong. Demons are the ones that have a right to walk through it, dividing the territory between the strong ones and never stopping to fight for power and control. It is a constant war, it is the way they exist, and people are just the mere tools to be used and broken.  
  
Meg eases her hold and bends lower to look in Missouri eyes, face to face. “Tell me, woman, is my plan working?”

“Yes.” Missouri croaks out, and Meg lets her go stepping away.

Meg stands still, straightening her shoulders, letting the realization calm her restless spirit for a moment. Then, it starts to come back, to take over her, the power, the feverish urge, the burning flame for _him_. Meg’s thoughts are already far away, working out and collecting the pieces of new information.

Missouri massages her neck with one hand as she glances at the other hand; the fingers holding the cigar are slightly trembling. Her voice is filled with loathing, and some part of it is directed at herself. “Now, that you have already brought a big mess on the earth by crushing this city, your new plan will start with burning up the sky for him?” She doesn’t raise her eyes to look at the dark-haired girl.

Missouri’s question stops Meg as she is already on a way to leave. The gentle smile on her face is only for Tom. “No, not the sky. Tom likes to look at the sky. I’ll save it for him.”

  

  
The clock on the wall ticks quietly, lulling them to sleep. The room is bathed in semi-darkness as the scant moonlight streams through the window demanding to own a piece of the room.

Dean lays half-covered with a blanket along with Sam’s body as additional cover, radiating heat and possessing as much of Dean’s body as asleep Dean allows him.  

The clock’s ticking sounds like a frightening beat when a color of Dean’s dreams turns dark red.

 __  
  
  
Deep, artful cuts on a body are beautiful. The blood and tears of an ex-meat suit complete each other, forming the fluid where each crystal tear drop contains a red cell of blood. And it’s pure blood, the one that is not coagulated. It took so long to bring it to this level, and now it is perfection.

_If you take a close look (and you should take a close look to appreciate the beauty), you will view the crystal blood drop as a new artwork, a new creation of your own. It feels like being God. Almost._

_It takes a lot of time and effort to create something truly amazing and impressive._

_Yeah, that is the correct word. Impressive._

_But it is all worth it. When your work is done on a higher level, when you amaze yourself with the result of your exertions, you feel satisfied, and, in some way, even happy._

_Dean takes two steps back and looks at the body in front of him. Such a lowly, ugly creature contains the sources that might be turned into something beautiful. Isn’t it disturbing?_

_“Skillful,” Alistair comes closer, standing by Dean’s side and eyeing his work in appreciation. “Your work is surpassing all my expectations.”_

_The pride in Alistair’s voice conflicts with his constant arrogance._

_Dean lets his lips quirk upwards in a smile. He knows it without anyone mentioning it. Alistair’s words are just a statement of fact._

_Still, he can let himself feel this thing, this pleasure of taking the appreciation from someone else, let this feeling run through his veins. It feels okay._

_The body laid out before him moves slightly, sobbing, and_ _Alistair raises his hand intending to touch him._

_“Don’t,” Dean corrects Alistair in a quiet voice. “It’s my work.”_

_Even though Alistair turns his head to look at Dean with disapproval, he pulls his hand away from the one who once was a human._

 

 

Sweat breaks out on Dean’s forehead when he opens his eyes. Though the chasing memories make him want to run to the bathroom and vomit, Dean fights against his own body, trying to lay quietly, the throbbing of his heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears is the only sound he hears. He tries not to make any noise or sound, foreseeing Sam’s reaction and trying to prevent it. He’s not ready to deal with Sam’s worry as well. It’s just a nightmare, nothing to fuss about. But he’d better not to fall asleep again. Just a caution.

With his eyes wide open, Dean peers into the darkness of the room, busying himself with discerning the objects in front of him, hanging to the reality, desperately trying not to fall asleep.

Abruptly, his head jerks, and while opening his eyes, the panic rises in him like a tide when the realization that he drifted off hits him.

Under a looming shadow of desperation, Dean shifts to slide out from under Sam’s weight without disturbing his brother. He pulls Sam’s hand away from his hip and attempts to free himself. He perceives his failure as Sam’s hand tightens on his hip and succeeds in bringing Dean’s body back.

“Dean,” Sam says in a rough with sleep voice, the word is a hot breath on his neck. 

Dean should lie still to avoid any explanation, but his mind is half-trapped in his nightmare ~~s~~ , dreading, and his body starts pushing his brother off to get away.

In a second, Sam is on him, pinning him down with his weight and inspecting Dean’s face for answers. “What is it? Is it a nightmare?” Sam takes the meaning of worry to a whole new level.

Dean looks at his brother; his face blank, controlled, as the anger starts to fill the holes abandoned by fear, holding Dean’s sanity in one piece.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” the words are cold and harsh. He doesn’t have any soothing word for himself or anyone else.

“Dean.” His name comes out as a plea, and Dean’s had enough. It’s too early for any deep revelations and never a right time for opening up a can of worms. Right now, he hates Sam for his habit of never letting things go, not allowing for an easy way out. 

Sam likes to dig deep; always has to look into your soul and know everything, eager to turn you upside down just to reveal the truth you don’t want to share. Sometimes, Dean misses dad’s way of dealing with a problem – to bury the problem, piss on its grave and forget. 

_Why can’t it be just as easy with Sam? Why the hell he can’t let it go?_

“Just fucking go to sleep, Sam!” Dean growls, shoving his brother away, and almost sends him flying off the bed. 

Dean gets out of the bed to sit on the edge of it, holding his head in his hands while turning his back to Sam. He intends to storm off, to take the keys and drive his baby somewhere far away from the nightmares and thoughts, from Sam’s questions, from Sam himself. 

He just needs to be left alone and not be forced into _feeling things_. And Sam always takes so much of him. Always pushing him. Taking over him. Sometimes, it gets hard, sharing the same air, the same breath, one heart with Sam.

As Dean considers leaving, his heart starts to defy his mind, thumping violently in his chest, yearning to know how Sam is. It’s frustrating and annoying, and Dean scowls at himself. He doesn’t want to turn back, doesn’t want to face Sam just now. 

But the mocking truth is that he _craves_ to know if his brother is okay. It’s not even an instinct; it comes as natural as breathing. _To breathe in and out - check. To watch over Sam – check._

Exasperated with himself, Dean glances over his shoulder to find Sam gazing back at him. Sam wears his heart on his sleeve; the hurt and confusion are written all over his face. And just like that, all Dean’s anger and frustration fly out the window. What he feels - it doesn’t matter anymore. Sam matters. Dean finds himself sitting there, helpless against Sam’s pain, fidgeting on the edge of the bed and fishing for the right words to say.

Dean has an awkward history of dealing with the words. Sam is the one who knows how manipulate words, turning them into weapons at his will. His wishes and desires will be screamed out loud till you give up yours or will be shoved down your throat after the silent treatment he gives you. 

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t trust words. Lies and betrayals are built up using words as their foundation. Dean trusts his eyes, his gut, and his actions are the ones that speak his mind. 

In complete silence, Dean rolls back into bed and turns to face Sam, not touching him, just being closer. 

“Let’s go back to sleep, Sam,” he offers, voice rough from tension.

Sam looks down at him, easily reading Dean’s intentions to let it go and forget. The stubbornness against giving way to Dean and his desire to give his brother what he needs are fighting for control over Sam. 

Dean waits, intently watching Sam’s every move, eyes searching Sam’s face for signs of giving in. Patiently waiting for a change, waiting until - until he can’t anymore, until the desire to bring Sam close and hold on to him makes him clench his fists, digging his fingernails painfully into his palms and preventing himself from touching Sam.

“Sammy,” Dean says hoarsely, looking desperately at his brother, and that’s all it takes. All the walls are falling down, desperation and pain are ebbing away, and Dean can breathe without his heart ripping out. Sam throws himself down on Dean’s side, buries his head in the crook of Dean’s neck and mumbles the words that Dean understands without recognizing.

 

 

When an hour later Sam sits in the chair in front of the TV trying to look occupied, and hiding the fact that he’s actually watching Dean talk on the phone with Bobby, amazed by the tone of Dean’s voice as if everything is normal and peachy, he thinks about the nightmares Dean has, about the secrets Dean keeps from him, about the pain he buries deep inside, and he wonders how long it will take Dean’s breakdown to crush him, how fast Sam can heel him afterward.

Sam knows he can’t prevent Dean’s falling apart no matter how desperate and determined he is to stop any pain Dean feels or to kill anything that cause it. Dean won’t allow him, won’t let him see his vulnerability. All Sam can do is to wait and be ready whenever Dean needs him. And if it is breaking Sam inside, he won’t admit it.

Dean ends the call and comes closer to Sam, a smile on his lips. Sam looks at this practically shining Dean and, abruptly, his heart drops remembering the hollow days without his brother, being terrified of living without him. The reminder that now he can come close and simply touch, to feel Dean’s skin under his fingertips makes Sam take a deep breath and slowly breathe out, letting the feeling finally sink in, to erase the primal, uncontrollable fear of losing his brother again.  
  
In this moment, Sam is deadly sure that the price for bringing his brother back was low.           

Dean waits till Sam’s smile returns to his face and closes the distance between them. Dean places his right hand on Sam’s shoulder and gently pulls him up until their foreheads are touching; they look down, not closing their eyes, sharing the same steady breathing. The minutes pass by as they stand this way, letting go of four months, pulling the loneliness out and erasing Sam’s desperation lines off his forehead and his soul.

“Sammy,” Dean breathes out, lightly pulling Sam back far enough to look into his eyes, putting hisright hand over Sam’s heart. “Bobby is on the way; he’ll be here soon to take us to meet some psychic, a friend of his. Before he does-“, Dean bites his lower lip, face determined. “You didn’t return my pendant. You have to tell me where my pendant is, yeah?” He nods hesitantly, not taking his eyes away.

Sam’s breath catches in his throat, but he doesn’t dare look away from Dean. _Dean knew_ , Sam thinks, feeling a weight come off his shoulders. “Yeah,” Sam lets out a sigh of relief, covers Dean’s hand with his own and reaches to taste the trust from Dean’s lips. _Thank you._ “Yeah,” He says in return, letting the promise to linger on Dean’s lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Somewhere between the truth and lies, Sam found his own place to be.

Four months ago, he would have chosen one side to stick to and fight for. But then, the colors blurred, leaving a big, grey mess behind, and Sam lost the right brush to draw the black and white lines.

Now, that the bright colors are back in Sam’s life, he doesn’t know if he should go back to choosing the sharp black/white colors or find a comfort in all shades of grey. Sam not knowing doesn’t mean he _actually_ wants to know. The bright brush strokes that Dean brought to his painting are supported and greeted by the tiny, deliberate grey strokes that were the ones his painting started with.

Two brothers sit on the opposite beds, knees lightly brushing, and Sam starts scrutinizing Dean’s face. Now, that Sam has to reveal the four months he tried to block out with the scent of Dean’s body, the memories are falling down at him, all at once.

Sam recalls his dark desperation when the lines of Dean’s face started to slip away from his memory, and the one day he enclosed himself with the poor supply of Dean’s pictures in attempt to scorch every line of his brother’s face back into his memory.

  
 

_The first month is days full of research and nights full of whiskey. Sam gives up the family business easily, immediately. Saving people didn’t save the one person it had to. No matter how many souls they’ve saved, the family business, like a hidden thief, stole everything from Sam and then, finished him by taking away Dean. Sam starts to avoid people in order not to harm any of them, hating them for being alive while the person that was saving them all along is tortured in Hell._

_Sam finds a deserted house, as far away from people as it can be, the perfect place to hold on to what’s left of him and to keep on searching._

_When the world stole Dean from him, it flipped the hourglass, and with each passing day, with each fallen grain of sand, Sam is counting down the last days._

_One morning, he can’t make himself get out of the bed. He lies there, unmoving, eyes open and hollow, the growing beard itching his face, when the ravaging tide of desperation crushes him, forcing him to squirm violently, screaming out loud like a wounded animal. The sounds of his voice are mercilessly ricocheting off the walls._

_The old house takes the destruction silently and cold-bloodedly, watching him scream himself hoarse until all that his body can give are the tears streaming down his face. When there is nothing left of him, he lies there waiting for the visit from the ripper._

_Meg is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes the next time. She is sitting on the bed, looking at him with emptiness in her eyes. She is someone he doesn’t know, someone unfamiliar and alien, someone whose eyes reflects the death wish he has._

_“Long time no see, Sam.” She says quietly and runs her fingers through her hair. “I think we need each other.”_

_Sam greets her with dull eyes._

  
 

“You believed her,” the half-question, half- statement hangs in the air as Dean interrupts Sam’s narrative in a croaky voice.

“I had nothing to lose.” Sam says and places his right hand, palm flat on Dean’s knee. _It’s okay now. I’m okay now. You are here._

  
 

_Six days pass before Sam gets back to his former self. Meg is there, demanding, insisting._

_“Get your pathetic ass up. You can drink yourself to death after we finish,” she spits while looking at him with disgust._

_She is always there. The loud reminder of Sam’s fall, the demon wearing a face of a human, both forms that he hates. Sam wants to kill her_ so much _. Sometimes, he looks at her and dreams of the ways he’d kill her._

_It could be night or day, she could be laying cautiously, resting, eyes opened, with the moonlight illuminating her face, or she could be standing in the daylight looking at him. He dreams how he would twist the demon-killing knife in her belly, with a pleasure, looking into her eyes, or how he’d shoot her with the colt, watching her die and then, would shoot one more bullet, enjoying her pain._

_Sam hates her fiercely. The ugly truth is that he doesn’t give a damn about the past, about the things she did to them, about her dad, about his dad. It was a long time ago; it was with someone whom he isn’t anymore. It is nothing compared to Dean. She is a demon, and the demon killed Dean, made the hellhounds tear him apart into pieces while Sam was watching, unable to move. While Sam was useless._

_The thought makes his blood boil. The memories of his helplessness are big, hard, insisting raindrops, smashing into his scalp, drenching the seeds of his self-destruction._

_Sam tries to block the memories of who he was, the times he shared with Dean, the smile on Dean’s face, the freckles on Dean’s back under Sam’s fingertips when his brother laid asleep and sated, protected under Sam’s body while the sun streamed through the window._

_Sam tries to focus on bringing Dean back. He tries not to think about the whole year he had, about the chances he didn’t use, about not killing everything and anyone to keep Dean safe, about a broken promise,_ And I don't care what it takes, I'm going to get you out of this _, about hope and trust in Dean’s eyes._

_It is safer this way, for his sanity._

_When he looks at Meg, he can’t stop himself from thinking – he helped the demons kill his brother, and now they want his help again._

_Sam is one step away from fracturing, his skin a thin glass protecting him from bursting out._

_One day when Meg is training him in the use of his abilities, she crosses the line._

_They are in the house, standing against each other; the only obstacle between them is the old wooden table; the knife upon it lays readily, the bright blade a gentle reminder of the blood treatment it can give you._

_Meg is leaning against the wall, muscles tense and arms crossed, tousled, dark short hair, blue jeans and white T-shirt, the perfect picture of a girl next door if not for the look of scorn on her face, watching him try to move a knife from the table. “Concentrate, dammit, the knife won’t lift itself.”_

_Sam closes his eyes for a second._ Make the gun float to you there, psychic boy. _Some memories are deep under his skin, like toxins seeping into his blood._

_Sam grinds his teeth hard and tries to force his mind to control the knife, blocking all the memories and fixing his mind and will on the knife in front of him. The knife moves an inch and stops, freezes despite his attempts, making Sam growl low in frustration._

_Meg lets out an uncontrollable cry of desperation, “You are useless. What was I thinking? That you can save my brother? You even couldn’t save yours!”_

_Her words burst his carefully constructed dams, and Sam doesn’t register his next actions._

_Instantly, the knife floats to him, and Sam catches it easily, holding the knife tight in his right hand. Then, he appears right in front of Meg and slams her hard against the wall trailing the point of his blade over her neck. Sam says nothing, eyes locked with hers, while the knife moves on her skin leaving a shallow cut behind. “Tell me, again, why should I believe you?”_

_“You want to see you brother again,” she spits, hatred in her eyes._

_“And you want your brother back as well,” Sam deliberately moves the knife along her neck, the sharp blade marking her skin with another tiny cut. “The vicious animal that had to be put down.”_

_“He was my brother,” she answers, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper._

_“The psycho that had no control,” he continues in a steady reasoning voice._

_“He was my brother,” Meg raises her voice, eyes burning with loathing._

_“A thing that deserved to be cut off the world,” Sam states, driving every word into her skin with a tiny cut._

_“He was my brother,” she screams angrily and shoves him hard enough that Sam almost hits the floor._

_Sam backs away; the hard wooden floor under his feet is a steady ground. He succeeds in calming his breathing and finally raises his head to look straight into her eyes. Really look at her._

_Meg’s body is a taut string. She fails in trying to compose herself, the desperation and anger crossing her face make her more vulnerable than the tears streaming down the cheeks ever could._

_Sam looks at her as if he’s looking at a reflection of himself. She isn’t complete. She isn’t broken enough, not like him. Sam’s state is the shattered pieces of the stained mirror. She just needs one friendly step down to feel what he feels, so he can look at her and recognize himself in her._

_Using her vulnerability, not tearing his eyes away from her, Sam says matter-of-factly, “He’s dead, and you couldn’t do a thing to save him. You were the one to let him die.”_

_When she falls down on the floor, Sam steps away without a glance towards her and heads to lie down. Without any hint of remorse, he gets comfortable in bed and closes his eyes, knowing she is no longer a threat to him._

_It isn’t cruelty; it is just the way he is. They both made their own beds, and if Sam made a personal hell out of it, it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t bring a partner to share the consequences of killing the only person they loved._

  
 

“And you…,” the uneasiness in Dean’s voice grabs Sam’s attention more than any word could. Dean lightly shakes his head in disbelief, clearly surprised by what he’s going to say, “you felt no mercy for the thing that was going through the same hell that you did.”

 _Hell?_ Sam thinks. _Wrong word choice, Dean. You were the one there. You._

Before the emotions grab him by the throat and get hold of his voice, Sam continues firmly. “We both deserved it.” As Dean opens his mouth to protest, Sam sets his jaw tight and looks stubbornly at his brother, “no, Dean. Don’t.”

Sam knows Dean won’t accept it, will try to prove him wrong, will react the same way Sam would, but it’s different. And Sam would never tell Dean how it hurts, how it feels, even now, the knowledge of betraying the only person you loved.

Predictably, Dean chooses another way to say the words, giving Sam a long look and delivering his point through the softness and fondness in his eyes.  _No, Sammy. You didn’t deserve any of it._

Sam doesn’t dare to look away, longing to soak in all the infinite love and trust Dean has to give.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it, but it’s his, and Sam is not willing to refuse basking in Dean’s love or share it with anyone else. Dean is his. And Sam wants every part of him, every bit of emotion and attention Dean has. Dean is the only human being Sam knows that loves without holding back or asking for anything in return. Support and sympathy are laid open to take if you need, and Sam will make sure that he’s the only one on the receiving end, not trusting anyone in appreciation of the gifts Dean can offer.

Sam leans closer to brush Dean’s cheek with his fingers, knees bumping, eyes registering every breath Dean makes, trying to breathe in every bit of air Dean lets out.    

Sam’s heart settles down, putting aside the hurt that the memories of the past bring, concentrating on the sensations that come with Dean being close, fingers caressing the lines of Dean’s face.

The next breaths Dean let out come with the words that he says deliberately slow, his gaze fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder, “Sometimes, you make me blind with how much you love me, so don’t – Just stop hurting. It’s over, Sammy.”

  
 

_Lilith’s name comes out when Sam is torturing another demon in some random basement, too deep down to hear the screams, fishing for the information he needs. The exorcizing of the demon brings him no emotion, no hint of satisfaction as long as there is nothing about the location of the bitch that killed his brother._

_Meg brought him this present insisting that the demon had some connection to Lilith, and Sam has already spent six days coming up with new ideas and exploring every way to bring more pain to the squirming creature in front of him._

_The words are so quiet that Sam doesn’t register them at first, using salt as a perfect patch for his handiwork on the demon’s flesh. The next time words spill out with the screams and curses **,** Sam stops dead in his tracks catching Lilith’s name._

_“Come again,” Sam says, barely restraining himself from pulling the answer out from the demon’s throat with his bare hands._

_“I’ll tell you where she is,” the words are muffled against the knife that Sam holds to the demon’s lips._

_“I’m sure you will,” Sam smiles reassuringly, every cell of his body boiling with anticipation._

  
 

_Sam thinks it’s too easy, that there should be a catch._

_Lilith uses a body of some powerful businessman’ wife, playing good little wifey and using her husband’s resources to connect with other powerful men and provide them with the demon’s filling._

_Sam steals her right from her husband’s house, the daylight illuminates his path when he turns off the security system and knocks out the bodyguards. He doesn’t need any human abilities for that, he‘s well-trained to turn off everything and everyone with the simple raise of his hand. The bodyguards inside the house are demons, but they don’t last long against Sam, falling down at Sam’s feet._

_Sam just clears his way through the rooms, not caring if anyone survives. He has no time for caring; killing the demons along with the humans is the fastest way to move past the obstacles in his path. Sam has learned the prioritizing lesson the hard way a couple of months ago. And he won’t forget._

_Lilith is the next and final target. Sam finds her in the bedroom, sitting on a chair in front of a vanity and brushing her blonde hair._

_“I’m so sorry for your loss, dear,” she says mockingly when Sam reflects in her mirror._

_Sam steps in the room and immediately, a wave of the power hits him hard in the chest._

_“Your welcome greeting is poor. Wanna try harder?” Sam asks warm-heartedly, brushing the invisible specks of dust off his shirt._

_Lilith finally turns in her chair to face him, her eyes turning into slits. “Oh, you came prepared **.** I’m flattered.” The next wave of the power is strong, so strong that Sam’s catches his breath **,** and he can’t move for a couple of long seconds._

_“All right,” Sam says afterwards, “you showed me yours, I’ll show you mine.”_

_Sam raises his right hand at her, watching her through half-closed eyelids, losing himself in the sensation of the inhuman dark power swirling inside him, boiling through his veins, pulsing outward in wave after wave to Lilith._

_Sam stops when she falls down on the floor and her screams are no longer heard. Sam comes closer and chants a spell to knock the demon and human inside the body unconscious for hours._

_Time is running out, and he moves as quickly as possible, every move sharp and precise. There’s no room for slow motion, no time for letting any thought stand in his way, he just follows his own plan, step by step._

_Sam leaves the house, his body tense, every sense on edge, cataloguing every sound, eyes registering every move around him, holding the body tight over his shoulder as a precious gift._

_There’s only one thought disturbing his cold mind: how come it was so damn easy?_

  
 

_Lilith’s hands are tied tight with the heavy chains above her head, her legs are chained to the floor **;** she is trapped inside the metal cage. Every side of the cage is painted with ancient symbols, holding her inside the human body. If her hands or legs touch any side of the cage, jolts of unnatural pain go through her form, and Lilith tries to shrink into herself but the body can’t hold it more than a couple of minutes or so._

_But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that there’s permanent pain. The feeling of the hellhounds tearing her body into pieces, and this pain never stops, never ends, inducing her screams even when she thinks she can’t scream anymore._

_Outside, Sam sits on the chair in front of the cage, listening to the screams and watching as Dean’s pendant rocks under the wall, over the cage._

  
 

Sam is interrupted by Bobby knocking on their door; he’s pulled from his memories back to reality and looks up at Dean. 

Dean’s expression is unreadable, jaw set, and Sam’s stomach drops. Dean stands up to open the door, visibly pleased to share the room with someone else besides Sam, to let some fresh air into the room to clear the tension, and it hurts Sam more than he expects.

  
 

Later, they drive the Impala following Bobby’s truck. Dean sets the silent, tense mood by answering Sam’s casual questions like _Did Bobby say how long the trip would take?_ with the eloquent “yes” or “no”, and it’s Sam’s cue to shut up, which Sam does, trying to quiet his loud beating heart along with his mouth.  

Sam falls asleep somewhere along the way. Sam’s dream is vivid and unnaturally colorful. He dreams of the motel bed, the blue with yellow flowers sheet; Sam lies across the bed as the quiet emptiness surrounds him. Sam is strangely calm with the feeling of being cold and alone; he lies unmoving, looking up at the ceiling and swallowing his own tears, feeling a stabbing pain at the loss of Dean. 

Sam wakes up with a scream, eyes burning; the taste of ash in his mouth is strong. It’s the same taste he had after waking up from the nightmares before Jess’ death.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam’s nightmare is like a slap from the past.

It feels like drowning under the water.

You try to fight it, but the water is closing above the top of your head, and as you scream, your lungs are filling with the water. Some force is dragging you deep down to the bottom, and there’s nothing you can do to survive.

Some things will find you no matter how many years and miles you put between you and your past.

 

Sam feels as the headache, accompanied by nausea, hits him causing him to bend double in the seat. Sam moves forward, holding his head in the hands, and takes deep breaths, opening his mouth and trying to catch some air.

“Sammy?” Dean’s worried voice comes through the fog in Sam’s head as his brother’s hand lands on the back of Sam’s head, soothing.

Sam swallows the bile in his throat and stretches his hand blindly out to grip Dean’s wrist tightly.

“I can pull over,” Dean offers, no question in his voice, just a statement and will to do so instantly if Sam gives him just a nod, but Sam shakes his head lightly.

“Just give me a minute.” Sam says through clenched teeth, Dean’s warm skin under his hand is the only thing his body craves at the moment.

“Sammy,” The slight protest in Dean’s voice should be annoying as an additional part to Sam’s headache, but Sam distinguishes a panic in his brother’s voice, and Sam’s emotions are pale shadows in comparison with his brother’s.

Sam tries to compose himself, screwing his eyes shut, hand moving to grip the fabric of Dean’s shirt and bringing his body closer to warm up under the heat of Dean’s body.

The ripping sound of the fabric brings Sam to reality and soothes him. _It’s just a nightmare. I brought him back. He’s not going anywhere._

Sam turns his head to look at Dean, searing the image of his brother – one-handedly driving Impala, breathing one air with Sam, green eyes piercing into Sam’s and trying to watch the road at once – into his brain, and coming back to life under Dean’s intent gaze.

Gradually, Sam’s pain ebbs away like a wave retreating away from the shore, leaving him with only a bitter taste in his mouth, and Sam can’t stop a relieved smile from spreading across his face, his touch on Dean’s skin becomes gentle, fingers brush warm skin deliberately.

Dean lets out a small sigh of relief in answer.

Sam watches as Dean’s body shakes off the worry, letting go of the tension, yet not entirely, and Sam shoves Dean’s shoulder playfully, “Eyes on the road, Dean. I’m gonna break only if you crash us into the nearest tree.”

“Bitch,” Dean mutters under his breath without any hint of irritation. Sam’s words do the trick, and Dean visibly relaxes. 

In spite of Sam’s reassurance, Dean’s eyes scan Sam’s face one more time before turning back to the road in front of them.

 

As they drive, air dry and thick, seats hot under them, eyes fixed on the road, they try not thinking about the past or future, and everything in between, it’s just now, them, and the road.

The road is wide and smooth, comforting, safe; the part of their lives that is always ready to let them leave the memories behind and give a temporary peace. 

The silence stretches between them, comfortable and easy.

“You scared the crap out of me, man,” Dean says after a while in a quiet voice, and Sam knows Dean refers to not just the nightmare, and he hears the end of the phrase without Dean opening his mouth, “don’t do that again”. 

Sam glances at his brother’s profile, and after, turns his gaze back on the road.

 

The little diner in Waite Park, Minnesota, serves an amazing turkey burger with fries, and Meg notices it, absentmindedly, as she takes another bite, her eyes fixed on little TV screen on the wall.

A tiny blonde girl, the local reporter, tells the news of a recent plane crash. No one has survived. There is no living witness to reveal the details of the crash and make the story “to kill for” even more entertaining, but reporters are happy to show the mourning families, focusing the cameras to show close-up shots of the tears streaming down people’s cheeks. Grief always sells well.

The sun’s rays stream through the diner’s windows, glinting off the glassware and blinding Meg. She turns away from TV, wincing.

Meg slowly takes a sip of coffee watching people around her through half-closed eyelids. Everybody keeps the silence, not tearing their eyes away from TV. Some people’s mouths hang open in shock and disbelief, some - have tears in their eyes, and some - try very hard to show any evidence of sadness, clearly being indifferent to the suffering.

Every city is the same, Meg thinks. The same picture of people trying to react to the tragedy, taking each drama as an individual event and not understanding that each event is just a grain of sand in time. They can’t see the big picture. They don’t know it’s just the beginning.

A couple of days ago it was Appleton, Wisconsin. A school bus with the kids crushed with the same consequences – no one survived. And no one should have. It is a clean-up process, no garbage is gonna be left, no man will survive.

Meg takes another sip and thinks that there’s not much time left to find a decent body suit for Tom. It’s bugging her, making her twitch in her seat. It’s another thing she hasn’t done for him.

The guilt washes over her, overshadowing the permanent sorrow. Meg looks at the cup in her hand, and angrily registers the little tremble in her fingers, then, she grits her teeth putting her useless, weak emotions in the back of her mind.

She recalls the deal they made a long time ago – to choose the body suit for each other. With their father obsessed over psychic kids and pretty out of their lives, at first they were left to themselves, and then – to each other. It was one of their ways to show care without saying the words. Words didn’t suit them.

She doesn’t remember what the reason for this tradition was at first – to choose what kind of body you’re gonna fuck or to choose the body that will be healthy enough for them.

Tom said once that it was about choosing a spirit, choosing someone who had the similar core they did. They were not some pathetic demons that didn’t give a damn about the suit as long as it was walking and breathing. They were better; they were special. They were the one.

They knew each other better than they knew themselves; and choosing the body that would carry your half made perfect sense.

Now, she needs to bring him back so the world can makesense again.

Meg’s attention is drawn back to the TV as the reporter’s voice gets louder announcing _a special report._ Turns out that there is a flood threatening to cover Waite Park, and Meg can hear real worry in reporter’s voice now that it involves her.

Meg stands up, leaving the tip on the table, not wanting to examine the theory of no living soul after the disaster more closely.

As Meg steps outside to the blinding sun, she wonders if Dean and Sam have any idea what kind of consequences their happy reunion brings.

 

Pamela is flirting with both of them, but it feels good, easy, as they are just two guys knowing nothing about Heaven or Hell and having an eye for anyone except each other.

The difference is that years ago, Dean would be in her panties right after he introduced himself; he liked his women to know what name to scream when they came. Now, though, he just enjoys looking at her, appreciating the beauty. After all, Dean Winchester is not blind, but he can’t even let himself fuck her in his own imagination; everything he is, including his body, mind, and even thoughts were given to his brother a long time ago. It’s not something he did on purpose, hell, they’ve never even talked about it, but it’s just the way they are: so tangled in each other, that sometimes Dean doesn’t know where he ends and Sammy begins.    

Dean watches Sam from the corner of his eye, keeping his patentedsmirk in place for Pamela.

Sam looks almost scandalized by the prospect of a threesome. When Pamela turns away from Sam and flashes her smile at Dean, Sam’s expression changes from confusion to jealousy in a blink of an eye. Pamela’s friendly tap on Dean’s shoulder on her way into another room doesn’t help Sam’s mood as he looks daggers at her back.

Dean finds it all pretty amusing.

“Easy, Sam,” keeping pace with his brother, Dean comments only for his brother to hear and receives a very expressive bitchface in answer.

When they occupy their places at the table and hold hands, beginning the séance, Sam squeezes Dean’s fingers tightly like he wants to break them and Dean tries to hide his wince, turning to give his brother a hard glare.

Sam glares back and Dean is the one to turn away in the end.

“Whenever you, princesses, are ready,” comments Bobby dryly.

Both boys glance at him and then quickly turn their gazes on the table.

“Close your eyes,” Pamela insists, and they all obey.

When Dean closes his eyes, the darkness welcomes him like an old foe, making him breath uneasily, offering to throw the Hell memories back at him, and he concentrates on Sam’s breathing next to him instead.

Pamela tries to contact the force that brought Dean back, and Dean thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should have told Bobby, before the séance, that he knows what force pulled him from hell, who was accountable, maybe he should have told him that Sam is the one responsible for all this mess, but there are some things about his brother that Dean is the one to know, some secrets about Sam’s power that he wouldn’t reveal even to his father if the man himself was still here.

The table starts shaking, and Dean thinks for a moment that it’s not just a table but the ground underneath them. Pamela screams, and Dean immediately opens his eyes. His gaze lands on Sam at first, and it takes him a second to check that his brother is okay, and then he turns to Pamela.  

Pamela stops screaming, sitting with her eyes wide open in fear.

All of the sudden, the loud awful noise fills every corner of the room, rasping their ears and forcing out almost all the air from the place, practically leaving no room for breathing.

Without a word, all of them jump up from the chairs, gasping, hands covering their ears, and move away to the nearest wall for some kind of support.

When they lean on the wall, the glass windows are shattering into tiny pieces with the lights going off.

In the darkness, Sam’s hands find Dean and pull him against Sam’s body; Sam is solid and shielding against Dean’s skin.   

And then, all the sounds are abruptly cut out, and it is oddly louder than it was before.

The quiet, demanding voice sounds like a thunder in the dreadful silence of the room.  “Why did you call for me?”

Dean’s eyes adjust to the darkness, and he discerns some guy in a trench coat in front of them.

Dean doesn’t need any more confirmation to understand who this guy is. Castiel. The Angel. The angel that dragged him out of Hell.

Bobby moves faster than anyone, stabbing Castiel with Ruby’s knife, but it has not the slightest effect.

Bobby’s gaze travels from the knife in his hands to the face of the angel, lightly shaking his head in disbelief, while Castiel looks uninterested and bored. With the raise of his hand, the angel casually renders Bobby and Pamela unconscious. 

“I need to talk to both of you alone,” Castiel says moving closer to them.

Sam is the first to recover and start speaking with a hint of mockery in his voice, “Looks like you found someone that fit your tastes after all.”

Castiel flatly states. “He was a man of faith. He willingly chose his path.”

He turns his gaze to look at Dean, scrutinizing, and Dean feels as every nerve in Sam’s body tenses next to him.

“I’m not willing to waste any more time, Sam Winchester. You have to tell me where Lilith is.” He looks straightforwardly at Sam, and Sam tilts his head to the side considering his options.

And Dean hashad enough of being the blind one here. “Why are the Angels so interested in this Demon? You have some big plans for her up there?” He knows he sounds pissed, voice rough, but he’s had enough with all the secrets. He takes a step closer to Castiel shaking Sam’s hand off himself.

Castiel shows no emotion except giving Dean a pensive, thoughtful look before answering. “And why the Demons are so interested in you and your brother?”

Dean looks back at him, feeling like there’s something else, something that he needs to know. It feels like he’s one step away from figuring the things out, from understanding why his family was thrown into angels’ and demons’ playground. Just the thought of it takes his breath away and lays heavy on his heart.

Castiel knows more than he’s willing to share, and Dean is ready to beat the shit out of him to get some answers. Eyes locked, they measure each other.

Sam’s hand landing on Dean’s right shoulder feels heavy and possessive.

“You need to erase the mark,” Sam interrupts, voice dark and demanding.

Castiel turns to look at Sam, saying in colorless voice, “I don’t see the point of your request.” His face is emotionless.

“You still need Lilith, so don’t question my requests.” Sam comes closer to Dean, standing behind him.

Dean feels as the heat of his brother’s body envelopes him. He is certain that if it was possible, Sam would lock himself in Dean’s body.

“You should understand whom you are talking to,” Castiel lowers his voice, and Dean thinks that he catches the glimpse of anger in angel’s eyes.

Now that the angel’s calm state is having a small crack, Dean doesn’t waste his time, although he understands his chances - he can ask only one right question. His heart is pounding in his ears when he speaks, and he’s afraid he won’t hear an answer behind the heart beating. “Was my mother in the way of your higher games?”

Castiel looks at him with understanding in his eyes. He wasn’t fooled, and it’s his own choice to give an answer or reject. “The demons are playing their own chess, not notifying us.” Each word is deliberately spoken when he continues, “She was supposed be one of the queens.”

Dean freezes, the words reached his ears and mind, but he has hard time processing the meaning. The only thing that revolves in his head is the word “mom”, that his mind numbly repeats over and over again.

He remembers her happy, smiling, warm, and so full of love. And she was just piece on chessboard?!

The memories are suffocating him. “Mom,” the word is stuck in his throat, and Dean lets it out choking. He knows he’s shaking a bit, and he doesn’t know if it’s the anger or grief that gets hold of his body.

Castiel’s lips tighten into a thin line, and Dean knows he won’t hear one more word of revelation.

Sam’s hands come to lock around Dean’s chest, holding Dean’s body tight against his chest, trying to soothe and ease his brother’s pain.

“I want you gone,” Sam says to Castiel, voice dull, his chin is on his brother’s shoulder, not caring about anything except Dean’s needs.

“I don’t think so,” Castiel moves, he’s one step away from entering their personal space, looking thoughtful. “I think that you’d do anything to keep your brother. And it goes the same way for him. A deal is a deal, Samuel. I don’t take well when someone tries to play me.”

Castiel raises his hand pointing to Dean’s shoulder, “This mark will be nothing in comparison to the bloody trails I leave after.”

In answer, Sam is plastering his whole body to Dean’s. The waves of anger, desperation, and fury are rolling between them, growing stronger. The tattoos’ beat are getting louder, like a thundering drumming to their ears. Sam entwines his fingers with Dean’s, seeking more closeness, each cell of their bodies feels connected, and then some force is breaking loose from the depth of the bodies, bringing to the surface a blinding light that destroys any other power, taking away Castiel and all the sounds around.

But it’s not enough. The primal force inside them isn’t gone; it demands more, threatening to burn them alive. Sam’s lips find the spot on Dean’s neck; he licks the tender skin, eyes open, enjoying the salty skin he tastes, thinking that he almost hears the sound of blood running through the vein.

It’s almost unbearable. He’s so close, but not close enough. He craves for more, Dean’s body begs for more.

When Dean turns slightlyin his arms, arching his head backward to give Sam’s access to his throat, eyes finding Sam’s, the need in his eyes is raw and blatant. Sam sees the reflection of himself in his eyes, and he feels like they are one step away from being under each other’s skin.

With a satisfied grunt, Sam bites the skin under his lips, teeth tearing into the flesh almost gently. The pumping blood is echoing in his ears and blowing the taste buds out in his mouth. Sam licks away the tiny drops of blood feeling as they are seeping into his blood. He feels high with the taste of Dean around and inside him.

Instantly, the rest of the force inside them frees itself, separating their bodies for a few inches to find a way out, and disappearing into nothing, leaving them breathing hard and looking into each other.

Dean is the one to move. He finds Sam’s mouth and kisses him hard, biting Sam’s lips till the drops of blood color their kiss. 


	8. Chapter 8

Sometimes Sam wonders where they would go from where they are.   
  
Years ago, he was mourning over the past, aching with how their lives turned them into what they’ve become.   
  
Now, he only thinks about the future. He doesn’t stop to register what they’ve got on their hands now. He doesn’t wonder in which fight they’ll find their end. No, Sam wants to live long, because he wants Dean to live long, and that’s how it works.   
  
  
  
  
They don’t talk to each other; practically don’t look at each other while they help Pamela and Bobby to come round.   
  
Dean avoids him, Sam can almost feel the « _back off»_ scream Dean suppress every time Sam’s eyes linger on Dean’s skin. And Sam just lets it go, gives his brother the space he needs, literally stepping away. He knows it won’t last long, and it’s not like he has any choice but to accept it.   
  
But, in exchange, his body demands something for himself, something to not feel the hurt of Dean’s rejection, and Sam gives in. He shuts his mind down, refusing to process anything, choosing the numbness over hurt.   
  
Frozen, Sam watches Bobby’s reaction like he’s sitting in the back row of the movie, failing to feel involved in the character’s lives in front of him.   
  
Bobby’s first question is _What the hell is going on?_ And Sam’s eyes shift from Bobby to Dean to watch with interest what _the Dean_ has got to say.   
  
Dean doesn’t disappoint his expectations as he fills in the blanks for Bobby, revealing that hell has nothing to do with the visitor, giving away some parts of their conversation with Castiel.   
  
_Some parts_ mean that he leaves out the details of how demons made themselves a toy of the Winchester family, turning the Winchester brothers into two fucked-up-beyond-repair lovers.   
  
Sam watches them all through half-closed eyelids, until he can’t anymore, feeling tired to the bone. He tries to move away from the conversation, as far away as possible, stepping back, pressing his forehead against the farthest wall of the room, closing his eyes, and trying to distance himself from everyone, at least for a moment.   
  
The voices of the conversation turn into buzzing as Sam looses his hold on reality, half-dreaming.   
  
  
_He sees their old house in Lawrence, leaves falling from the tree, running down the road towards the house, chased by a brisk wind.  
_  
 _The air is filled with peacefulness, and Sam breathes in the scent of autumn as he takes a long look at the house._  
  
 _He knows this place, remembers how they visited it with Dean years ago and saved a woman with children. But the house seems different, homier somehow, and not as worn-out as he remembers._   
  
_Suddenly, the door opens and there’s a beautiful young blonde woman in a light green dress coming out, tilting her face up to the clear sky, closing her eyes under the streams of the sun, and smiling happily._   
  
_Her hands lay protectively over her swollen stomach._  
  
 _Sam knows who she is. He doesn’t think the image of her would ever wipe from his memory. “Mom,” he whispers as his eyes sting._  
  
 _Mary bends her head down and runs her hands lovingly over her stomach, “The world is so beautiful, Sammy. I’ll show you.”_   
  
_Sam’s tears are falling uncontrollably down his cheeks as he looks at his mother, wishing she could see him, touch him, give him the comfort only mothers can._  
  
 _He watches her smile, and thinks of how happy she is, how free she is, and wonders how their lives would turn out if they stayed normal, if she didn’t die. Sam is utterly positive that they would be happy._   
  
_Sam glances at her stomach and thinks of the child she carries and wonders whom this kid could be. Would he become as stubborn as he is, as rebellious as he was? Would she still love him as she does now?_  
  
 _Sam looks at her smiling and quietly talking to the unborn child, and he has no doubt that she would, his mom would love that child unconditionally._   
  
_Then, the thought strikes him that if there was a chance for them to meet now, if she knew what her son turned into, how twisted and fucked up he turned, she would regret giving a birth to someone like him._   
  
_Why wouldn’t she?!_   
  
_Sam’s face darkens; the tears are drying on his cheeks as he looks gravely at his mother, trying to imprint every line of her face into his memory._   
  
  
“Sam!” Dean’s shouting breaks through to him, and Sam regrettably lets go of the past, coming back to the reality.   
  
The image in front of his eyes is blurred, and then fades away leaving no tracks behind, except the dull ache in Sam’s chest.   
  
Sam blinks as he finds himself standing in the circle of his brother’s arms, Dean’s eyes searching Sam’s.   
  
“Where were you?” Dean asks in a low voice, unreadable expression on his face. “Another nightmare?”   
  
Sam feels weary and old, giving up on any efforts to say a word. He tightens his lips and looks away, hearing Bobby and Pamela’s voices from another room.   
  
“I didn’t want them to see you like that,” Dean explains as Sam makes no move to turn and face his brother.   
  
The silence falls thickly over the room for long minutes as they make no move, each brother deep in his own thoughts.   
  
“You’re back.” Dean finally interrupts in a confirming voice, speaking to himself, voicing his fears out loud.   
  
Dean’s words give away the swirl of emotions he was going through while Sam was unconscious, but Sam can’t even bring himself to look at his brother’s eyes, hiding behind a comfortable numbness.   
  
Dean’s hand lands on Sam’s forehead, cool and pleasant, and it takes Sam a moment to perceive the gesture. Dean’s intentions break though to Sam, and he snaps out of his haze.   
  
“No, Dean,” Sam tilts his head to meet his brother’s gaze, shaking his head lightly, “no headache.”   
  
He opens his mouth to continue, to explain, and, suddenly, he just can’t. He can’t talk about their mother right now. It hurts to even remember her, standing under the sunlight and loving someone she should not.   
  
At Dean’s puzzled look, Sam shifts, and carefully untangles himself from his brother’s arms, their eyes locked.   
  
Dean backs away a couple inches, dumbfounded, and gazes intently at Sam in attempt to figure out the meaning behind Sam’s actions. Sam looks back, desperate, hoping that Dean won’t push and just let him get away with it.   
  
Then, something in Dean’s eyes shifts and he looks away, awkwardly stepping back, arms falling from Sam’s body, face set. Sam immediately feels a shiver going through his limbs at loss of Dean’s body next to him.   
  
“Okay,” Dean says, nodding to himself lightly.   
  
His tone is cold and emotionless, putting distance between himself and Sam.   
  
Dean half turns away from his brother­ – his perfect profile reminds Sam of solid Greek statues – body tense, and opens his mouth to throw words to the wall behind Sam, “I told Bobby we’re leaving. I’ll be waiting in the car.” The words are ricocheting off the wall and, unexpectedly, hitting Sam.   
  
Dean leaves the room, steps heavy and rushed. Sam looks at his retreating back and wishes he could make things better.   
  
  
  
  
The next day starts with Sam waking up in the Impala’s passenger’s seat, blinking up sleepily at his brother behind the wheel. The rest of his dream is fading away as Sam slowly returns to the reality where his brother is the only solid presence Sam knows.  
  
Sam watches Dean driving his girl, humming to the Pink Floyd’s song that flows quietly from the tape deck, noticing Dean’s strong hands on the wheel, breathing in the air that is filled with the confidence and sureness Dean provides.  
  
The blanket slides off Sam when he tries to sit up to look out of the window in order to process where they are. Sam stupidly looks down at the blanket, not remembering covering himself with it. He turns to Dean and catches his brother’s quick glance. Before Dean’s eyes shift back to the road in front of him, before he escapes Sam’s gaze, Sam’s eyes pierce into his brother’s, holding Dean’s gaze for a moment, trying to deliver his feelings to the only person that cares about him.   
  
“Thank you,” Sam says pointing at the blanket and meaning so much more than that.   
  
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean shrugs it off, clearly not understanding the fuss about it. Sam knows it’s nothing for Dean, just one of his habits of taking care of his brother, and maybe Sam, himself, didn’t pay it as much attention as he should.   
  
“No, Dean,” Sam catches his brother’s wrist – his tan skin looks somehow rough in contrast to Dean’s pale skin – in attempt to make Dean understand, looking straight into his brother’s eyes, “I mean it.”   
  
Dean glances at Sam’s hand on his wrist, and then, raises his gaze at Sam. Whatever Dean catches in Sam’s eyes, makes him fidget in his seat, self-consciously, unable to take a compliment.   
  
“Yeah, okay,” he says, a bit hoarsely, and turns to the road in front of them, clearing his throat. “It’s your turn to drive for the next 12 hours. Get ready, bitch.”   
  
The tiny smile lingering on Dean’s lips makes Sam laugh happily in answer.   
  
  
  
  
Dean finds them a job; nothing special, just a couple of ghosts not wanting to leave the old house that was once theirs. And it feels like old times, before Heaven and Hell, before special abilities. They are just two hunters killing any evil thing they can find.   
  
It makes Sam careless; he fights like it’s one of his first hunts, like all he has is the knowledge learned from Dad, salt, and the usual hunter’s tricks, like he didn’t lose a thing to these supernatural creatures, like he enjoys it, like he’s better than them.   
  
And he feels like he is, being reckless and free, bold with a side of foolishness, until the ghost’s fingers tighten on his neck suffocating him. Sam looks aside to catch the glimpse of Dean destroying another ghost, and then, he tries to concentrate on evoking his power, looking into ghost’s eyes, trying to force him back away, but something is off, and Sam’s powers are not working. His time is slipping away, and there’s a thought that maybe he’s human, after all.   
  
The ghost’s grip is deadly and final. Sam’s brain is playing tricks on him, scattering his thoughts like the pearls from a tearing strand, and it’s hard to breathe. Sam tries to keep fighting back, forcing his powers to come to the surface, but all he gets is helplessness and despair.   
  
As his strength leaves him, Sam thinks _Dean, Dean_.   
  
Abruptly, the grip on his neck weakens, and Sam can breathe again. He opens his eyes to watch, weakly, as the ghost turns to the side. And then, there’s Dean.   
  
Dean and the unbearable heat. Everything is surreal. Dean looks as himself if not for the heat that surrounds him like a shielding substance threatening to burn everything except the master. The heat is progressing, getting stronger and swallowing the oxygen around them, and something inside Sam wants to crawl and join this power.   
  
Sam watches his brother through the heat haze, barely recognizing him. Sam saw a lot of scary things till the point where they all turn into everyday job. But this one is terrifying.   
  
Dean comes closer to them, yielding the pulsating heat; his body generates an incandescent force as the anger in his eyes becomes almost flammable. The air moves around him, bowing to him, letting him through, offering him the space.   
  
The ghost is no longer touching Sam, as they both can’t take their eyes off Dean, staying frozen in the heat that envelops them, making them paralyzed, unable to move.   
  
Dean’s body almost floats, and when he comes close enough for them to get burned, there’s a wild scream. The ghost next to Sam is burning like a flame, bawling. Sam’s ears ring as he watches the ghost convulsing with pain and disappearing into the thick air.   
  
And there is heat, so much heat that it burns Sam’s vision, and Dean is only a blur in front of him. Sam closes his eyes tightly; the tears leaking from his eyes drying quickly on his cheeks.   
  
Sam feels as the heat licks his body, threatening to swallow him whole. Sam raises his arms, covering his head, his body instinctively clenching in attempt to protect himself.   
  
But then, there are arms on him, Dean’s arms, cool and gentle. Safe.   
  
“Sonofabitch,” Dean mutters, his caressing movements inspecting Sam’s skin for any evidence of wounds don’t match with his angry tone. “What the hell were you thinking? Going against the ghost cocky and bare? Wanted to die here? Bastard!”   
  
In answer, Sam’s hands find Dean’s body, _his Dean_ , and don’t let go.   
  
  
  
  
The anger inside Dean is still boiling. Dean is so pissed off that he can’t manage to say a word to Sam. He screamed at him alright, blew off some steam, but it’s not enough.   
  
The panic he felt there, watching as some ghost almost took his Sammy’s life due to the stupidness of his brother, is still eating at him. He doesn’t register exactly what happened there as his mind is still fixed on the dreadful possibility of losing his brother.   
  
They drive to their motel in heavy silence. Sam tries to open his mouth in attempt to give some stupid apology, but Dean predicts his every try, feeling it in the air, and turns to give his brother a hard glare in order to keep his mouth shut.   
  
When they stop in front of the motel, Dean barks a “get out” to Sam, and practically slams his girl’s door while getting out himself.  
  
Sam fumbles with the keys in front of the door, movements awkward and hasty, when Dean slams into him from behind, pressing him against the door. Sam looses his keys, but still, turns to face his brother, confused and a bit hurt.   
  
Dean uses this chance to shove him against the door, hard, grabbing Sam by the collar of his shirt, fists clenched, and then, he follows Sam’s body, leaning to put a claim on his brother’s mouth. Dean doesn’t kiss; he attacks his brother’s mouth, tongue thrusting into Sam’s mouth, teeth biting Sam’s lips and the inside of his mouth.   
  
And Sam lets him, mouth hot and pliant.   
  
When Dean pulls away for a moment to catch his breath, he eyes Sam for any sign of discomfort. And Sam– Sam is almost purring under Dean’s claim, satisfied with the fact that Dean finally put his hands on him. _Bitch_.   
  


Growling, Dean bends Sam over, forcing him to pick up the dropped keys and open the door.

They stumble into the room, Dean’s hands never leaving Sam’s willing body.

The floor is the closest surface that Dean sees, and he decides to settle there. He’s pushing Sam down, down till there’s nowhere to push, till Sam is where Dean wants him to be – underneath him, on his knees, ass in the air. Sam goes down willingly, with shining eyes and a satisfied grunt. Dean doesn’t let Sam move while he strips him almost violently, yanking Sam’s hands away, pinning his body down with his hands and knees until Sam is completely naked, plastered on the floor, not caring about the torn clothes or the gentle skin under his hands.

Dean holds Sam’s wrists with one hand, his knee on Sam’s back holding his brother’s body in place as he unzips his own jeans in one quick move, yanking down the jeans and underwear, and takes his already hard cock in his hand. He loosens his grip on Sam’s body in order to dig his fingers into Sam’s slim hips, push them up for Dean’s liking and swiftly entering Sam without any preparation. Dean’s first slam fills Sam till Dean’s balls are settled against Sam’s ass. Dean is firm that Sam feels pain along with pleasure, but if Sam’s moans are any indication, his brother welcomes this pain as the priest – God.

Dean doesn’t give Sam time to breathe before pulling away and slamming back in hard, again and again. The zipper of Dean’s jeans leaves red marks on Sam’s skin, and Dean takes a notice with the pride of an owner.

Dean fucks Sam like he’s on a mission. He feels his blood boiling with the animalistic instincts to bend a rival to submission, to over-power him. He leaves bites on Sam’s neck and back when Sam arches back to be closer to Dean. Sam moans aloud, not holding himself back, meeting Dean’s thrusts and trying to fuck himself on Dean’s cock.

The guttural sounds that come from Dean’s mouth don’t belong to him. It’s something wild and animal, something primal. Maybe it’s what Dean is now.

Sam writhes underneath him, the curves of his body are glistening with sweat, and Dean thinks, _beautiful, breathtaking_. Dean bends down to lick the sweat off his brother’s skin, tasting the lust and pleasure, cherishing Sam’s skin with his tongue.

Dean can see the red, bloody scratches on his brother’s upper body that Dean left with his teeth and fingernails, and it makes him fuck into Sam even rougher, marking as much skin as he can.

Sam comes first, painting the floor in white, crying out Dean’s name in a horse voice and going slack in Dean’s arms.

Dean slows down for a moment letting Sam’s climax pass, covering Sam’s back with gentle kisses, and after, he grasps Sam’s hips and starts pounding his ass roughly feeling himself getting close.   
  
Dean is so high, he’s afraid he won’t bear the coming down. He lingers a moment in an attempt to hold himself off a bit longer, closing his eyes and catching a breath.   
  
And then, there’s a gentle touch to his slick thigh, and Sam’s husky voice, “c’mon, Dean.”   
  
Dean gasps and comes so hard that it hurts. His head spins, and he closes his eyes, letting the pleasure take hold of his body, trembling; his heart is trapped in chest, beating violently. Dean falls down onto Sam, covering his brother’s body, wasted and dizzy.   
  
As they both lay on the dirty floor, half of Dean’s body is heavy precious weight on his brother, breathing hard and calming down, Dean tilts his head to catch Sam’s gaze, and reaches out to cradle Sam’s head in his palms. The words that were previously stuck in Dean’s throat are finally coming out in a firm voice, “you have no right to let yourself get killed. You’re mine.”   
  
  
  
  
Thomas Ryan leaves his office at 10PM on Friday night, and all he wants to do is to get home, crawl in bed and have a nice date with his pillow. But his younger sister, Jamie, is celebrating her birthday at some bar, and she threatened to post his naked childhood pictures on his company’s website if he doesn’t appear, and Ryan’s always keep his promises, so he had to suck it up and go and play good brother.   
  
Tom leaves the car in the parking lot and catches a cab, predicting that his sister will find a way to load him with the booze.   
  
When Tom enters the bar, the aura of smoke, loud music and possibilities of sex welcomes him and genially takes him into its arms. Tom’s eyes are beginning to water from the smoke as he makes his way through the crowd, blaming the new contact lenses he bought.   
  
Tom finds his sister pretty quickly; he just has to look for the noisiest crew. When he’s a couple of steps away from her, she spots him and practically jumps on him making him almost fall backwards.   
  
Tom groans, but hugs her in answer. “Thank mom and dad for good genes. If I wasn’t tall and well-built, we’d have both ended up on the floor.”   
  
Jamie grins and then, mockingly glares, pinching his shoulder, “And whom should you thank for being so modest? Uncle Marley?”   
  
“Hey! He’s our only uncle, brat.” Tom answers sternly, pointing his finger at her. “Have a respect for elders, even if they walk with their head up their asses.”   
  
“Be careful with the things you say, Tom. I could record your every word for a fresh blackmail material.” She winks at him, and Tom’s eyebrows go up as he wonders if she really turned on her cell phone recorder.   
  
Jamie laughs in answer. “C’mon, brother, you need to get drunk to enjoy this party and understand my humor,” she drags him to her friends, and Tom concentrates, trying to pay attention as she introduces him to the crazy bunch of people.   
  
Tom smiles and nods, repeating his name and shaking hands, and he desperately hopes that it will end _soon_. The crowd scatters and there is only one girl left, sitting somewhat aside, looking a bit out of place, and not paying attention to anyone around her.   
  
But she is the one catching his attention for more than a second. Somehow, Tom can’t take his eyes away from her.   
  
When Clare introduces them to each other – _Hey Meg; this is Tom, my big, boring brother I told you about. And this is Meg. She moved in right next to me, and she is the only one who knows how to make a perfect mochito_ – the girl _finally_ looks up at Tom. Not just looks up, she peers at him searchingly. There’s hope in her eyes like maybe Tom can hold the answers to all her questions, and, somehow, Tom desperately hopes he does.   
  
Suddenly, the brightest smile lights up her face. Tom stands, mesmerized by it, as she reaches out her little hand for him to shake.   
  
“Meg,” she says, smiling at him gently, and letting him keep her hand in his longer than necessary.   
  
“Tom,” he answers, smiling back, and all of the sudden, feeling content.   
  
Meg’s smile slips a little, “I know.”   
  
  
  
  
On their first date, Tom makes reservation for a table at a fancy restaurant aiming for a classic dinner with candles and roses, something she deserves. There’s a feeling of firmness when it comes to her, the surety of what she deserves – the best, of what he’s willing to give her – everything.   
  
The strongest impression the posh restaurant leaves Tom is Meg’s bright eyes, shining, looking at him like he is the center of her universe.   
  
Throughout the whole dinner, Tom looks at her and keeps asking himself, _if this is it, if that’s her_ , but he already knows the answer. The crazy feeling of knowing, of understanding, of sensing her, deep inside him, doesn’t fade away, it only grows stronger.   
  
After, she drags him to Burger King _to eat properly_ , and when he looks at her, absorbing, taking in every piece of what she is, while she sits next to him in her beautiful black dress wearing high heels and eating burger, smiling happily, Tom falls in love for a first time in his life.


	9. Chapter 9

The air feels crispy as Dean gets out of the car, and he straightens the collar of his leather jacket, breathing in the late autumn air and letting out the breath that, like a smoke, rolls through the cold breeze.   
  
The cold dry atmosphere sharpens the objects, all flat surfaces and right angles.   
  
The ground under Dean’s boots is solid, and Dean likes the feeling, the steady feeling that it gives him. He stops and looks around taking a pleasure in the firmness of the things that surround him. The open road is smooth and endless, familiar and reliable, despite the ignorance of where it begins and ends; the road signs scattered by the sides of the road are the only safe signals companioning him since his childhood, gently guiding him in the right direction. Dean’s favorite girl is sparkly clean, solid and standing out against the washy objects in the parking lot of a gas station as the daylight seems frozen along the surroundings.   
  
Stuck in the moment, Dean lets every detail and sensation wash over him. Then, he shakes off the feeling, stretching out his shoulders.  
  
The bell above the door makes a groovy tinkling noise when Dean enters the convenience store, and Dean frowns at the sound. He doesn’t like to be noticed, not comfortable when people’s eyes pierce into him, lingering on his skin, trying to put a price tag on him.  
  
Still, he shuts down his emotions and flashes a grin to the young clerk behind the counter that answers with a boring look before shifting his gaze back to the magazine that he was reading. Unnecessary, Dean’s false grin disappears in an instance, and Dean goes deeper inside the store searching for the junk food and hoping to find some vegetables for Sammy.  
  
Arms full, Dean reaches the counter to find it deserted and quiet. The magazine is abandoned on the counter, opened on the page with some naked chick flashing her big boobs, dying for attention as the proud owner of the magazine is nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Well, that’s not weird at all,” Dean states to himself, swiftly emptying the food to the counter, covering the magazine with absent comment, “sorry, sweetheart”, and reaching for the gun tucked in the back waistband of his jeans, eyes suspiciously inspecting his surroundings.  
  
The door bell rings, and Dean turns to find a man in mid 40’s entering the store, eyes leveled with the gun that Dean points out at him.  
  
The man’s eyes are wide open in fear as he starts jabbering, eyes concentrating on the barrel of the gun.   
  
“I was just gonna ask for the right direction, but I’m leaving now. I didn’t see a thing, just– just let me leave, like I wasn’t even here. Okay?” The man talks with a weird accent, his eyes shifting from the gun to Dean’s eyes and back, as he keeps licking his lips nervously.  
  
Dean smiles reassuringly; yet, the gun is a comfortable weight in his hand keeping his aim steady, “Don’t worry, buddy. I’m a cop, just checking if everything is alright.”   
  
The man tries to answer with reassuring smile as well, but they both know he’s failing. Hands held high in the air, trying to look as bland and unthreatening as possible, with hesitant smile formed at one corner of his lips, he starts backing away, “yeah, okay, okay. Just let me leave and keep doing what you were doing.”  
  
The gun in Dean’s hand follows the man and the man freezes, eyes still fixed on the barrel, hypnotized like a rabbit in front of a snake. He licks his lips in attempt to say something but his voice gives up before his mind does.   
  
Dean fixes the man with a hard glare, his fake smile long slipped away, as his lips curl in a cruel smile sharpened by a hint of savagery. Every nerve in Dean is strained with a tension of expectancy. He waits. He just knows.  
  
Suddenly, the man’s face breaks into a genuine smile as he looks at Dean with a hint of a pride. “Well, my boy, that was a hilarious scene we played.”   
  
The name slips out of Dean’s lips without him processing the meaning of it, “Alastair.” The flashbacks of years spent in Hell are drenching his mind; the memories easily fit the slots of his head, each one taking its own place.  
  
“Did you expect someone else?” Alastair takes a step toward Dean and stands there, eyes fixed on Dean’s shoulder. “That bastard!” His unexpected anger poisons the air turning it thick and hard to breathe. “He snatched you out of my hands and marked you?” He spits out the words, and for a moment, it reminds Dean of Sam’s reaction to the mark.   
  
_Sammy_. Dean’s heart beats a little faster, a little louder. It seems like the darkness suddenly removes the day, taking its place as everything around Dean loses its brightness.  
  
Alastair continues, all of a sudden voice full of a warm color and delightful amusement, “Well, we’ll fix it. Don’t you worry.” He holds Dean’s gaze, a slight smirk dancing across his lips. “My dear boy, when you promised to kill Samuel, I didn’t think that banging the bitch in heat you call your brother was your way of killing him. I’m sure Azazel would burn in hell, if he was there–”, Alastair chuckles, “–seeing as my boy fucks his favorite child, but we need to keep our heads level, concentrating on the important things. We’re running out of time.”  
  
“And what is that?” Dean asks gravely, his mind concentrating on getting new information and not allowing himself to process the meaning of the words.  
  
Alastair comes closer to put his hand on Dean’s left shoulder and Dean tries not to cringe, meeting his gaze openly. “Stop him! We can’t let him use his power, let him win this war! He can’t bring back any demon he wants, bring Azazel! You did everything to put him away for good, my boy. We can’t lose this war.”  
  
Pride smile appears at the corner of Alastair‘s lips. “Many demons will gladly follow you, but destroying the earth is not something you can win respect with. We all know how much you don’t like the meatsuits, but destroying the ones we use won’t be a smart move.”  
  
Dean’s voice is hollow when he speaks, frightenly so, he knows the answer to the question, “And how do I manage this?”  
  
“It’s you and your brother. Look around. You can’t bring two opposite forces together and expect the world to cave in to you. Too much power will destroy the earth’s balance; you can’t mess with the balance of forces and invert the natural order, my boy! You are not gods. The two of you are killing thousands now, and it looks like you are just warming up.”  
  
Dean’s gaze freezes as the world around him just stops.  
  
A hint of remorse is evident in Alastair’s voice when he continues, “They returned your soul before we finished making you worthy all this power, before we erased the human nature that insulted you.” He squeezes Dean’s shoulder as if he trying to give comfort. “But you do remember your desire to destroy your brother and everyone who follows him, to erase the memory of him off this earth?”  
  
And this urge from the past leaves a taste of sulfur on Dean’s tongue as he confirms, “I do.”  
  
“So why don’t you follow this plan?”   
  
Scornful smile reaches Dean’s lips. It’s fake, all these words, emotions are fake, demons can’t feel, can’t understand, they just can’t _know_.  
  
“I’m myself now.” Dean answers firmly, the last pieces of his strength wrap around him as armor.  
  
Alastair answers with a knowing smile. “No, my boy. You were born to wear your destiny with pride, to fulfill the place your father denied, to face and kill your brother that took the place your mother betrayed. This is how things end. We won’t let Azazel win this war. His death, your brother’s death, is the end of it; our time will come. We will control the demons, won’t let the balance be destroyed. There is no other way, no other option; one of you will die, and it won’t be you, my boy. We’re almost there. You just need to take the last step.”  
  
And Dean feels it, sees it. Alastair’s voice is fading, and there’s the image of reality in front of Dean that turns into the crumpled photo and then, it’s set on fire, the middle of it turning into ashes; Dean watches his real world turn into ashes as he sees the other side behind it, the world that, scarily, is more real than the crumpled photo.

  
  
  
_A fire lights his path as he takes each step. The ground is burning around him, and he doesn’t see a thing except the fire, cities of ash and clouds of smoke. The flames are bowing before him, at his feet, clearing his way._   
  
_He already took his last step, burning all bridges of his past life, giving in to demands of his power, choosing between being swallowed by the power along with Sam or killing Sam._   
  
_It was the right choice; the only one he could take._   
  
_Dean doesn’t question it. It was his destiny._   
  
_And here he is, taking his place, forcing Earth and Hell to claim him as the only creature worthy of the throne, of domineering over the worlds._

  
  
  
_Sammy._ Dean’s walls are crushing down as the image smokes away, leaving him shaking, weak, and Dean craves for his brother, yearns. _Sammy._  
  
The darkness completely overtakes the store, submerging the objects in it. Alastair’s eyes glisten in the darkness. “Oh, I see.”  
  
The door opens, bringing in the cold breeze. Sam stands in the doorway, radiating light and power that swirls around him, creating the wind. “Stay away from him.” His voice is cold and forceful.  
  
“Sammy,” Alastair stretches out his name, “It’s a pleasure to meet the whore that serves my boy.” Alastair sounds pleased as if he’s been waiting for _that_ moment.  
  
“Get your hands off him,” Sam’s voice can cut the stones.  
  
“Oh, this?” Alastair pulls his hand away, looking on with great amusement. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t even leave a shadow, doesn’t _leave a mark_.” His voice turns into a combination of challenge and provocation, thick as honey. “Aren’t you pissed that someone put a claim on something that you thought belonged only to you? That someone took it from you and dared to leave his sign? Used him in a way you wouldn’t venture?” He measures Sam with his eyes, trailing off for a moment. “But you see, he’s not yours. This boy is mine. He’s my creature and my pride, the one that will lead my army and destroy yours.”  
  
“Stay away from him!” Sam’s controllable voice is crushed down by his anger, growing stronger. Dean thinks if he stretches his hand forward, he can actually touch Sam’s power. And it’s calling for him, drawing him into Sam’s vortex of power, and Dean is too weak to resist it.   
  
Dean’s skin is burning, his own force wants to come out and join Sam’s. And it’s too hot for Dean to handle it, too hot to not let it slide off of his skin.   
  
Dean shifts closer to Sam, coming to stand under his brother’s protection, not caring if it seems weak; he feels weak without his brother’s touch.   
  
Sam’s hand lays possessively on his hip bringing him closer, his touch freezes Dean’s hot skin and calms the flame that threatens to come out, forcing Dean’s power to settle down, causing his force to align with Sam’s power.   
  
Dean puts his hands on his brother’s shoulders, their bodies aligned; the tattoos are making up for the lack of information and start beating out the same rhythm. Sam’s hands come to wrap around Dean, like a protective cocoon.   
  
Alastair’s voice gets ice-cold, the anger is under control, “How many people did you kill this time, Sam, by trying to _protect_ your brother?   
  
And Sam’s body just holds Dean tighter, voice offering bare truth, unremorseful, “I don’t care.”  
  
Dean’s body doesn’t even shift in answer. _Sam knew_ is another thought in his head that he takes as additional weight to the knowledge of what they are.   
  
The power around them gathers more strength, fed by their reunion, and Dean knows the meaning of it. He turns inside Sam’s circle of arms to face Alastair, his brother’s hands not leaving his body, the force around them sees a direction to strike, but Alastair is faster.   
  
Before the force hits the target, Alastair abandons the helpless body, leaving in a cloud of black smoke.   
  
The man’s body falls, burned and disfigured, at their feet.   
  
Sam drags his brother out of the store before Dean can take another glance. The power burns the store to the ground after they leave.  
  
  
  
  
The first snow falls when they are in Louisville, Kentucky, trying to look for a new case.  
  
Sam feels something shift in the air, like the time freezes every minute, stretching out the seconds, and the world covers everything with a blanket of snow, forcing everything and everyone to stand still, to keep the world from moving, from changing.  
  
Dean’s touches change as well. They are gentler, more precious. Every kiss is like the words he never said to Sam, but meant to; every touch of skin-to-skin is like a settlement to claim _forever._  
  
Sam accepts Dean’s shifted mood, going lax and fragile in his brother’s arms when Dean’s touches demand teasingly slow and deep, skin burning with anticipation, or getting rough and growling _mine_ when Dean’s skin is laid bare and tempting, inviting him in, letting him possess every inch of it.   
  
Sam is willing to accept _everything_ from his brother.

  
 

No more looking for jobs.  
  
Another cheap radio song is playing in the background; the window is closed, not letting in the cold breeze or any outside noises. The days pass by in the bunched up white sheets and needy whispers.  
  
The world is hollow and _not here_.   
  
His face is closed to yours, counting every line, every freckle or very mole, hard to tell when you are that close.  
  
  


 

Dean can’t stop looking at Sam, can’t stop registering his every move, watching Sam’s every breath, in and out, catching Sam’s words with his own tongue, rolling them inside his mouth.   
  
He knows it is inescapable, and he can’t stop it. He’s not doing for anyone’s sake; he’s just doing it because it’s right.   
  
And it’s so wrong that he can’t breathe, can’t stop thinking about how it will destroy both of them, can’t see any good explanation but the pain behind the decision he took.   
  
But he’s doing it anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean leaves Sam when the first white snow turns dirty grey.

Sam waits Dean’s coming back to motel room from questioning a guy that can bring a light to their new case, and Sam doesn’t worry a bit, nothing changes in his heartbeat while Dean is probably driving somewhere far, far away from him.

When a couple hours later, there is no news from Dean, Sam calls his brother and listens to the long rings before he receives an answer to his question. For a second, Sam holds his breath thinking that it’s Dean’s voice talking to him, but it’s not, just a dead machine taking away a piece of his Dean. Sam listens to the whole message, emotionless, and then calls again to repeat it. The words are meaningless, and they don’t want to sink in. Sam doesn’t know how many times he calls expecting to hear something different, something that makes more sense.

After, Sam remembers first words “ _I’m sorry, Sammy_ ” and the last ones “ _Don’t seek me_ ”.

Numb, Sam opens the door and sits on the porch, waiting. The snow starts falling down, leaving white snowflakes on Sam’s hoodie and his face, melting into icy water. Sam peers into the distance, straining his ears, ready to catch Impala’s engine sound.

Later, it gets dark and cold. The snow doesn’t want to stop, and Sam bundles up into his hoodie, gazing into the darkness. The snowflakes leave wet trails on his cheeks, meshing perfectly with the tracks of his tears.

Sam doesn’t notice himself crying, concentrating on catching any noise that sounds like Dean’s footsteps or the Impala’s roaring. He falls asleep sitting there, leaning against the door-post.

Sometime after, Sam gets up and steps inside the room, indifferent and frozen.

Abruptly, his tattoo’s beat changes to something louder, and Sam’s head jerks up sensing something. Sam turns around, a hope in his eyes, holding the door open and looking into the street.

Agitated, Sam stands there and waits. Time passes by, the snow turning everything around into snowmen as Sam’s hands come to cradle himself, in a try to protect from cold, his whole body shivering. Sam is assured that Dean will be here soon. Just another minute, just another minute–

 

  
 

Sam doesn’t know how long he stands there, his hope long slipped away. Sam dials Dean’s phone one last time, focusing on Dean’s word and trying to catch the double meaning behind them. This time, he gets it.

Dean is gone, and he wants to stay gone. He doesn’t want _them_ anymore. _What else is there to get?!_

Anger at himself is easier to contain; it takes the numbness away and leaves something he can fill himself with. Something edgy like shattered glass that cuts him from inside.

Sam knows it’s not Dean; it’s him. He was lying to himself thinking that Dean will keep loving something like him. Dean was too good, too kind to tell him to the face what he thinks about him, knowing Sam would be too weak to accept it and let him go. And Dean decided to go. The message was just another demonstration of his mercy.

When Sam closes the door, he closes the door on Dean. The tears start choking him, but they don’t come to the surface. Sam cries without tears, rage and sorrow twisting and turning inside him.

Sam’s eyes hurt, and the tightness in his chest becomes unbearable and he just can’t breathe, can’t breathe-   

Sam gets into to bed, breathing short and fast, pain shooting through his body; he intentionally covers himself from head to toe with a blanket, wondering if he will wake up.

 

  
 

Sam wakes up to rain drops viciously rattling against the window. The room is bathed in darkness and emptiness.

With consciousness, the memories come and try to remind him of the world he lives in from now on, and Sam awkwardly moves in a try to avoid them, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bent down and shoulders bowed. Sam is emotionless and empty, and he wants to stay that way while his mind doesn’t want to give up on him, focusing on registering each sound to fill hollowness inside him with something.

To Sam, the outside sounds seem unreal and useless, distant and shapeless to fit into Sam’s empty world. The sounds, the subjects that own them, all the things outside his motel’s room belong to someone or something.

And Sam is left to hang inside the emptiness, not having anything, not belonging to anything or anyone.

Sam’s head hurts when the thoughts fight their way in, forcing him to think, to recall his memories. He just wants to go back to sleep, eyes so heavy it gets unbearable to keep them open.

Sam gladly chooses to follow the demands of his body, and he drops like a stone to the bed, his head hitting a pillow. Sam rolls himself into the blanket as the rain drops start lulling him back to sweet nothing.

Suddenly, a long, wild scream breaks the silence, shattering Sam’s peaceful state, and Sam reluctantly tears himself from the bed, coming to stand in front of the window; annoyance and intention to stop any outside noise make his limbs cooperative.  The view he finds outside is fascinating. 

The world has changed from the white snow dream Sam went to sleep to. While Sam was asleep, the storm took dominance over the weather.

Sam takes a long look, enjoying a view. There are roofs torn off buildings, over-turned cars, toppled trees - the perfect background for chaos. And on top of that, there’s hail adding to the destruction.

Sam takes a closer look, inspecting. Hail is just a respite to the condemned world. Sam closes his eyes and breathes in. He scents panic and fear. It’s a fresh trail, and it doesn’t seem to end.

Sam opens his eyes and smiles, thinking that it’s just the beginning.

 “Good,” Sam says out loud, his mind and body finally agree in finding something that can keep them going.

The world looks damaged. And it’s something Sam can relate to.

Sam wonders how far his misery will spread its poison. He comes to sit on the bed and turns on TV to catch the latest news.

It’s all over the news. The storm on the East Coast.

Every part of the damage is zoomed in by reporters for close-shots of flooding streets, crashed cars, flights delayed after planes crashes, and dead bodies. Dead bodies are everywhere.

All of them are the victims of Sam’s grief that was too big for him to handle. But Sam is willing to share _his feelings_ with the world. He’s not going to suffer alone.

Sam’s fingers blindly reach for his cell phone on bedside table, and he dials Dean. All the time, Sam keeps looking at TV, pretending that he doesn’t register his own actions.

Sam’s anticipation to hear the substitution of his brother’s voice is almost pathetic. At first, he doesn’t understand why there’s no voicemail anymore, why the dead machine stopped pretending to be Dean. He pulls the phone off his ear and looks at it dumbfounded, as if he holds some unknown object.

Sam’s cell phone keeps telling him that Dean’s cell is switched off, and it takes a long minute for Sam to finally understand that his last connection to Dean is broken.

Sam thought that he was behind the“ _Dean left me”_ realization, but he was just waking up to it. And now, Sam’s emotions are like a massive flood breaking his dam of postponing the truth. Sam sits on the bed, eyes wide, and he silently starts falling apart. Without a sound, he breaks and breaks, not seeing the end of it. Every cell of Sam’s body gives away a piece of Dean it was attached to, but it doesn’t seem enough.

Dean is still deep down under Sam’s skin, and it hurts to keep him inside. Dean is like a cancer that damages Sam’s body from the inside, and Sam wished he knew how to cut Dean out.

After that, it’s only pain, blurred and endless. Somewhere between “ _I wish Dean just killed me_ ” and “ _Who am I_ ”, Sam passes out.

Sam misses another special report that informs of the huge fires and burning towns on West Coast, of more dead people.

 

  
 

While Sam is gone, he dreams of fire and rain, of dead towns, of the world’s ending. When Sam catches sight of Dean standing by his side, a smile starts lingering on Sam’s lips.

 

  
 

An hour after Dean left Sam lying through his teeth about a case and not planning to come back, Dean finds himself sitting in Impala, parked on the side of unknown open road.

The steering wheel under his hands is still warm, and Dean recalls driving like a mad man, trying to get as far away as possible from Sam, shutting his mind from any thought except driving in the opposite direction from where he left his brother.

Dean sits in the car, detached, focusing on only one thing, trying to dig though his mind for any hint of what to do next. He’s careful, not wanting to dig too deep, avoiding any subject that will bring more pain and get ~~s~~ him distracted.

Dean knows he should drive further, but he needs to do something to cut all the strings and make things clear between Sam and himself. Sam deserves to know, and Dean’s stubborn heart should get the memo as well.

Dean can’t call his brother. He knows the second he hears Sam’s voice, he’ll be turning the car around and driving till he has Sam’s heartbeat under his own. Dean chooses the easiest wayand decides to leave Sam a message by changing his own voicemail greeting.

Dean looks at the phone in his hand and clears his throat before forming his thoughts into the words.

Dean doesn’t know the best way of saying _“I left you and you have to deal with this”_ to the only person you love.

“I’m sorry, Sammy–,” he starts in a raspy voice, and stops for a brief second because “ _I’m sorry”_ just doesn’t cut how fucking sorry he is. “I had to–” Dean continues in a suddenly broken voice, not able to hold on anymore. “I just had to–”, he pleads, hoping that Sam will understand him. Dean holds his breath before forcing out the next words, “Don’t seek me”.    

There’s a beep sound and a confirmation that his voicemail greeting was changed.

Dean doesn’t move for a moment, numb.

The next minute, he opens the door of Impala and bends down over the driver’s seat, throwing up on the side of the road. Wave after wave of nausea hits him, and he tries not to black out, fingers digging into the leather seats.

When the nausea stops, leaving him helpless and weak, palms sweaty, sliding off the seat, forcing Dean to lose only surface he was holding to, he can’t keep himself together anymore. Losing control, he screams his pain out loud into silence.

 

    
 

Three hours later, Dean keeps on driving, focused only on getting somewhere close to Seattle before the dark. He knows he should try to get some sleep in order to not to crash himself into a tree, but he feels like he’s too close to Sam, sensing Sam’s gaze following him.

Dean’s tattoo keeps beating and insisting on him to stop and return, desperate to beat against another one, but Dean ignores it, teeth clenching.

The snow keeps falling, and it gets harder to drive. Dean is afraid he’ll get stuck somewhere in this kingdom of endless snow with no chances of getting out. 

The only thing his mind registers out of all this is who will keep his Sammy safe?

The thought is unexpected and frightening, bringing up worry and anxiety. An old habit from the depths of his mind rises up, a constant worry about Sam whenever he’s not around to check on him.

Dean abruptly pushes the brakes, evoking the displeased noise from his girl.  

Dean sits in the car in the middle of a road, locked in the peaceful quietness of the Impala while snow keeps isolating him from the outside world, leaving him alone to deal with his thoughts.

Dean’s head is filled with only one word _“Sammy”;_ other thoughts lose their meaning, pushed out by his brother’s name. And Dean sighs, giving in, lowering his head to rest on his arms crossed over the steering wheel. Dean’s reasons to leave Sam seem pale and selfish in comparison to Sammy’s needs.

Dean closes his eyes, confused, trying to take a breath.   
  
Suddenly, snapshots of Sam smash into his head making Dean gasp.   
  
Dean sees Sam’s face as if it’s within eyeshot; Sam looks hurt and frozen, pain seeping from his every pore, eyes lifeless. The despair and sorrow coming from Sam cover Dean’s senses, clouding his emotions. Dean can’t see a thing beyond his brother’s pain.   
  
The next minute, it’s over as if it had never happened. There’s just Dean sitting in the car by himself, disoriented and lost.   
  
It’s up to Dean to make a choice.   
  
The next moment, Dean’s mind and body gather up, receiving allowance from Dean, and start functioning under the force of his primal urge – protecting his brother.   
  
Thoughts clear, Dean starts the engine and turns his girl around, driving back faster than his leaving.   
  
It’s easy to forget about the dead people when he thinks about Sammy’s eyes looking at him with trust and adoration. It gets easy to pretend they are just two people that want to be together when Dean thinks about kissing Sammy’s laugh out of his lips.   
  
Eyes on the road, Dean drives fast until– There’s some image painted by snow on the windscreen of his car, and Dean tries to brush it off with a wiper, but his mind obviously plays tricks with him as Dean distinguishes a face of his mother.   
  
The image of Mary is almost clear, and for a moment, Dean wonders if it’s her ghost. Dean can’t take his eyes off her, stricken, and when he jerks his head in disbelief, the image turns into snow. But damage is already done.   
  
The weight of guilt drives back, pressing Dean down mercilessly, forcing him to stop the car.   
  
Dean works on calming down his rapid breathing as his mind returns to the fields of guilt and sorrow where hiding his own hopes and desires in the back of a mind is still the best way of dealing with all the pain.   
  
His mother was one of the victims. And now, some mothers keep dying because of Sam and him, leaving their sons with an unanswered “ _why_ ”. And how come Dean and Sam are better than yellow-eyed demon was?   
  
Dean is still sitting in Impala in the middle of a white nowhere, unsure of where to go, but he’s sure of the place he’s not coming back to.


	11. Chapter 11

Meg occupies the passenger’s seat as Tom drives the car down the highway, all while the world around them goes crazy.

The air is dry and thick, and Meg licks her cracked lips, watching a flash of sunlight reflecting on the windscreen.

The only way of convincing Tom to drive into the middle of the disaster of the East Cost was half-truth that Meg’s brother was in danger.

Meg made sure to protect the car from any disaster that Sam’s state could cause. It took her a week and half to cover the whole car with protective spells.

Though now, sitting in the car, looking through the window and registering every detail around them–cars turned upside-down, blood coloring broken glass, cars honking and people crying–she’s not sure her spells are strong enough to protect them from Sam’s power.

The demons try to lay low these days, terrified of Sam and Dean’s ruthless power that had gotten out of control. At least with the Apocalypse, they knew what to expect.

Now, no one knows what is waiting for them behind the corner. The East and WestCoasts are not safe for any creature, and there’s no guarantee that the Winchester brothers won’t move to the North or South.

First tries to kill the brothers failed; their power created a safe balloon protecting them from any threats. No demon or human can stand close to them, much less to kill them; bullets and demon’s powers are useless.

All attempts to cut the Winchesters out of the world ended up quite horrific for the demons and hunters who were brave enough to try, and now, they all just wait for some kind of miracle to happen. Funny, how the whole world teamed up in a try to get rid of Winchesters.

Meg keeps her own side. She wants only one thing – to bring her brother back. She doesn’t care in which world they’re gonna reside.

Meg catches Tom’s worried look out of the corner of her eye. “Tom?” She snaps out of her thoughts and shifts to another Meg, gently touching Tom’s shoulder.

He shakes his head, sadness in his voice, “I can’t help but think that we should be stopping the car and helping all these people.”

Meg looks at him with unreadable expression. “You can’t save the whole world, Tom. And I need you to get there fast to save my brother.” The last words leave no room for discussion.

Meg closes her eyes for a moment, sensing she’s dangerously close to her true self. She breathes out before continuing in a soft voice, “But I love you for that.”

Tom gives her a look full of unspoken words of love, and Meg answers easilywith a smile.

Lately, Meg gets impatient, and sometimes loses her ground. She is slipping. The knowledge of being one step away from bringing her brother back clouds any other thoughts.

She desperately needsthe _real_ Tom to fix her, to bring old Meg back. But just thinking about how close she is to having Tom back messes with her mind.

When Meg looks at a man beside her, she forces herself to see the one he will become; it helps to tolerate her brother’s shell.

Sometimes when they are together and Tom loses control, biting her neck while fucking her roughly, Meg wants to scream out loud, imagining that it’s her Tom’s teeth marking her flesh, her Tom’s body taking what belongs to him.   

But it’s not Tom. He can never come close to her man.

  
  
 

 

After Dean throws away his cell phone in attempt to get rid of the last temptation that can bring him closer to Sam, Dean’s days are all the same.

Dean sleeps for days, sometimes waking up when his body demands food or taking a piss, and then, blacking out again.

Dean doesn’t wonder when a day begins and ends. His mind only keeps the knowledge of being far away from Sam as the most valuable information.

Everything around Dean is colorless and tasteless, lifeless as he is. Half of the time, Dean is somewhat unconscious. He acts blindly automatically, by instinct, trying not to disturb his sleeping mind, trying to keep it unaware of the life around him.

Sometimes, Dean’s heart keep demanding Sam, forming a loud scream of his brother’s name with each beat, and his body supports it, longing and yearning, antsy and tense. Dean tries to ignore it.

Dean becomes a master of ignorance, trying to keep his mind in some kind of coma to make his body forget the touches and curves of Sam’s body, anticipating the time when his body stops being addicted to his brother, stops belonging to Sam.

It ends with Dean’s mind shutting down on him without Dean noticing. Sometimes, he wakes up in a bar polishing off a bottle of whiskey or in the local diner staring out the window with a burger in front of him.

One day, Dean wakes up and finds himself behind Impala’s wheel driving toward the East Coast. Dean abruptly stops the car, ears ringing, while fear and shock share control over his emotions.

He gives a long look to the road in front of him, forced to say another goodbye, and then, he sharply turns the car around. Noticing his hands shaking, Dean tightens his hold on the wheel and breaks the speed limit on a way to the motel.   

Dean gets the warning.

After, Dean decides to deal with the pieces of his shattered heart and weakness of his body instead of losing control. Dean sees it as a solution.

Unfortunately, things get worse. Constantly keeping himself in check takes Dean’s strength away, breaking his walls bit by bit, leaving him unprotected against his own heart. 

Sometimes, Dean shuts his eyes and let tears fall down his cheeks, pretending that it isn’t happening.

Every part of Dean betrays him, wanting to crawl back into Sam’s arms, and Dean tries his damnest to not let it happen.

When Dean is going out, he can feel strangers’ gaze following him, but whenever he turns around, it’s just him. He briefly wonders when his wish to avoid people turned out to be mutual.

One day, Dean stumbles out of the bar and finds the houses in front of him enveloped in flames.

He stands apart from the crowd and silently watches the fire and smoke, wondering why it smells so familiar. Dean can’t get rid of a feeling that this scent has been following him these last few months.

Groups of people are moving in different directions like a bunch of busy ants. Dean watches them all as if he sits on the front row of a theater play.

Firemen are running while the police sirens are ringing. The crowd tries to get closer to the source of the screaming as the fire eats up the buildings.

Dean stands stricken as the grey area around him that was his constant companion during last two months disappears inside the bright red flames. Everything seems to be painted with blood. 

At least, Dean thinks, he can see color now.

   
  
  


 

Tom parks the car in front of a motel, and they get out, quietly shutting the doors.

Complete and eerily silence welcomes them, proclaiming the mood that tries to get under their skin, and Meg notices Tom shivering.

Meg looks away, watching the sun starting to sink in over the motel as dark shadows hurry to occupy the vacancies.

The place looks like the end of the world has happened, and no living soul survived. Evidences of the damage–wrecked cars and ruined buildings–look like abandoned broken toys.  

As Meg loks around, trying to sense any danger before it hits them, Tom comes closer; shielding her, keeping her behind his back.

“This is not a place for you,” he says, looking at her over his shoulder as they move toward the motel, alert.

“My brother’s friend is here, and he knows where I can find Tom. I’m not leaving this place without my brother.” Meg says to his back, the warning clear in her voice.

Tom stops to turn and look at her.  His hand come to caress her cheek in apology, “Still can’t believe I share the same name with your brother.” He pauses for a moment, “You think he’d like me?”

“I hope so,” says Meg, visibly relaxing, eyes involuntary shining just thinking about her Tom.

   
  
  


 

Sam stands leaning against the desk counter when they enter the motel.

Long legs stretched out, arms crossed, Sam welcomes them with an eyebrow raised in mocking indignation. “I expected you sooner.”

As Meg looks at him taking in the endless power and confidence that surround Sam, she realizes that it’s not even close to what she expected to find.

In her head, Sam was almost as miserable and vulnerable as she saw him a year ago, when he lost his brother for the first time.

This Sam is a completely different person.

“Things change,” says Sam deliberately, slowly, looking into her eyes.

 _“… and a mind reader,”_ she adds in her head for him.

Sam just smirks in answer.

Abruptly, Sam turns his attention to Tom. For a couple of minutes, a tense silence fills the room as Sam watches Tom with an unreadable stare, and Tom tries to keep himself from twitching.

Sam is the first to take his eyes away, relaxing, while Tom starts rubbing his temples, wincing.

“You must be Tom. Nice to meet you,” Sam’s face breaks out in a genuine smile as he extends his hand for Tom to shake. “I heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” Tom is not a trusting person; it took weeks for Meg to earn Tom’s full trust. But now, Meg watches as Sam’s power turns Sam into one of Tom’s best friends in a matter of seconds.

“Yes,” Sam gives him a light nod in answer. “Meg’s brother can’t wait to meet you.”

One minute, it is the usual Meg, alert and tense. The next, Meg thinks her human form won’t contain the joy and relief she feels as she’s catching up with Sam’s words; her breath catches and heart starts pounding like crazy.

Meg turns her gaze full of gratitude to Sam, “thanks.”

Sam smiles to her in a way that makes her understand his generosity won’t come without a heavy price, “you are welcome.”

 

   
  
  


Dean stands on top of a mountain watching at the forests in ablaze in fire.

“Pretty picture, huh?” Dean turns his head to find a tall man in mid 40’s beside him.

“New suit, Alastair?” Dean’s voice is flat with boredom. He endows Alastair with a quick glance before turning back to watch the dying, burning forests, calm and focused on the sight in front of him.

Alastair follows Dean’s gaze, and they stand together as the clouds of thick smoke fill the sky.

“I never understood your fascination for the flames,” Alastair breaks the silence, incomprehension in a steady voice. “But now, you just can’t get enough of it. Soon, there’ll be nothing left to burn.”

Dean decides to give him some of his attention, turning around. “Were you coming and boring my father to death as well?”

Alastair jerks his head up, taken aback by the shift of conversation. He examines Dean’s face for any hints that will indicate the purpose of the talk, but all Dean gives him is a blank stare.

“Your father had to be one.” There’s an edge of bitterness in Alastair’s voice when he speaks, “He was the one to lead my army against Azazel’s pet.”

Nothing changes in Dean’s posture or his voice, but the air temperature suddenly drops.  “I assure you, I don’t find it entertaining when someone insults my mother.”

All of a sudden, Alastair can’t keep his eyes off Dean, allured by his power. His mind tries to fight back, but Alastair’s power is useless against Dean’s force that locks him inside his weak flesh. Dean’s expression is emotionless, while Alastair’s whole body shakes violently under his attempts to break free.

Anger at himself boils inside Alastair with the realization of the trap the stepped into. 

Abruptly, the words come tumbling out of his mouth as Alastair tries not to get burn under Dean’s gaze. “Your parents met each other before we found them to wake their powers to full force.  These powers need to be kept separated before gathering strength. Once they are strong, they can challenge each other. But as opposite as they are, these energies crave for each other, they seek each other everywhere. When your parents met, they were not ready, their powers too weak to fight. And after their powers collided, they extinguished each other.”

Under Dean’s hard gaze, Alastair’s shell starts steaming, and Alastair can’t help but scream. “Why it didn’t work with Sammy and me?”

Alastair’s screams stop as he’s forced to answer the question, gasping, “Azazel decides to avoid any possibility of a mistake and poisoned each suspected child with his blood when they were lying in their cribs.”

The next question burns Alastair’s insides as holy water. “Why did he kill my mother?” Dean’s voice boils with anger.

The earth beneath their feet is white hot. Bunches of green grass hiding between the stones start burning, and Alastair’s shell is choking on smoke.

“She disappointed him. He could lose the war because of her.” Alastair knows he won’t come alive out of this, he just knows.

“What about my powers?” Dean turns calm, all controlled voice and bright eyes. He looks composed and safe as his power destroys everything around him.

Alastair’s words come out along with blood drops, “I tried every way to drag you down to Hell, Dean. I needed you there to teach you everything, to teach you how to win this war. And I succeed.”

Dean looks down as Alastair falls to his knees, “Is there any way for these forces to stop?”

Alastair smiles despite the fact that he’s dying, “One of you has to die. The two forces are connected now. They keep each other strong. They exchange abilities and powers, and they bring an end to this world. My boy– You were born to win, to kill your brother and to win _my_ war.”

Wry smirk crosses Dean’s face, “Enjoy the ride then.”

The body that Alastair wore bursts into flames and turns to ashes in front of Dean’s cold eyes.

   
  
  


 

Sam steps outside onto the porch and raises his head, watching the clear, dark sky. The night fakes a peace covering the ugliness of the world with a black blanket, lying of tomorrow’s being better than today’s.

Meg hides in a shadow behind an open door, wary eyes watching Sam’s every movement. She holds her breath sensing Sam’s demand for privacy even though they both know no one can hide from Sam.

Sam’s eyes shine bright, and Meg swears they are hazel and not pitched black as before.

“Bang bang, my baby shot me down.” Stretching out words, Sam confesses in a quiet voice to the night.

He keeps the silence, and Meg patiently waits.

Not lowering his head, fascinated by what he sees in the sky, Sam adds shortly, “Make sure he stays after.” It’s final. And they are doing it.

   
  
  


 

Tom is asleep in bed surrounded by the spell circle; the floor and ceiling are covered with diagrams when they enter the room.

Sam doesn’t bother looking at him before he locks his eyes with Meg and starts chanting, picking the spells out of her mind, using his power to breathe life into them.

Tom’s body rises up, hovering right under the ceiling, convulsing. And then he starts screaming out loud, voice screwed up with pain.

Hell hounds’ barking is the next to come, filling every corner of the room. Claw marks are gouging into the wood floor, barks getting louder, and after, invisible claws start shredding the bed covers in an attempt to get closer to Tom’s body.

Meg twitches, worried, and Sam silently commands her to stand still. His eyes are bottomless pits that drag her in.

When Sam stops chanting, an unexpected silence follows, taking over the room, and Tom’s body drops down onto the bed like a dead weight.

Sam closes his eyes, letting Meg go. She runs to Tom, can’t get there fast enough. Meg falls on the bed and brings Tom’s body close, her knuckles white, fists clutching the cloth of his shirt.

Tom’s eyes are close, and Meg stills.

She starts whispering his name into his ear, and then, whispers turn into angry screams. Meg screams till Tom opens his eyes and looks at her.

It’s him. One look into his eyes and she knows. She doesn’t have to look twice to confirm it. But she can’t tear her eyes away.

Tom doesn’t blink, doesn’t ask her any questions. He just keeps looking back at her.

When his hand comes to grip hard at the back of her neck, she winces a bit, smiling brightly at him.


	12. Chapter 12

Whenever Dean dreams, he dreams of an old house in Lawrence, of the flames around it. The picture is exactly how he remembers it since he was four.

_Only now, grown up Dean is the only one standing in front of the house, the light of flames flickering on his face, the box of matches held in his right hand._

_When Dean strikes a match, he hears a baby cry._

_Dean’s head jerks, eyes searching around. Dean always managed to recognize Sam’s cry from other kids’._

_And then, it’s grown up Sam standing in front of him, hazel eyes piercing into his brother’s, lips bloody, whispering, “Don’t go away.”_

_Dean’s expression turns cold as he gazes at Sam with indifference, and then, he flicks the flaming match. Dean stands there like a stone and watches as the fire swallows Sam up, along with their family house._

_Dean keeps standing still._

  
After that, Dean prefers not to fall asleep.

 

 

Dean moves to the Northwest. He recalls that sometime in the past he wanted to smell a scent of ocean, to feel its waves against his skin.

He wonders if he likes it now.

He rents an ocean-front cabin in Oregon, as far away from people as possible. With Sam’s telepathic abilities, he doesn’t need any money in convincing people of his paying capacity.

Dean wants to explore if he can manage to live without burning up everything around him. 

The first day Dean spends swimming in the ocean, strokes strong and steady, breaking the smooth surface of the water.

Later, he sits on the rocks, water droplets rolling down his body, and watches the sun set, beer in his hand.

The stars shine brightly on the dark cover of the sky when Dean lies under the sky, looking up, cooling sand sticking to his back. His body doesn’t need much rest these days, and Dean doesn’t close his eyes, waiting with anticipation for some feeling to come, at least a tiny satisfaction of being where he always wanted. The hours pass by, and Dean is still stuck with emptiness.

When a morning comes and Dean watches the sun rise with a hint of disappointment, Dean has to admit that the flames are much prettier. 

   
  


The next dream is vivid and colorful. Dean opens his eyes to find himself on the bed he went to sleep in, but the minute Dean hears a warm-like-honey whisper of “hey, Dean”, Dean knows he isn’t asleep, just floating between his reality and Sam’s.

Sam steps in his dream as if he owns it, as if Dean didn’t leave him miles away and months back.

Sam looks around the place, and then, he focuses only on Dean, hazel eyes pin Dean in place, a small smile lingering on his lips saying “ _gotcha_ ”, but his lips breathe out, “Nice place, baby.”

Dean crawls up to lean against the headboard; his heart and tattoo are beating fast in joy, victory of Sam over Dean, each cell of his body is waiting with wild anticipation to bend for Sam.

Sam senses it, bastard, smile getting wider, and he leans down, body hovering over Dean’s. Dean really doesn’t like being played. His fist crashes into Sam’s mouth, the movement fast and artful, and Sam blindly steps back, head jerking, spitting blood aside.

Dean watches Sam with wild eyes, standing up and moving into his personal space, not thinking. Sam tilts his head, and smiles down happily at Dean, blood coloring his lips. Sam traces the blood with his tongue, lips shiny and then, gives Dean his best blow. Dean crashes onto the bed, and Sam’s body follows him. Sam doesn’t give him a time to think, smashing their lips together, licking into Dean’s mouth and tasting the blood from Dean’s split lip, mixing it with his own.

Dean grabs Sam’s shirt with both fists, panting, pulling away in an attempt to get some oxygen to his brain.

“No,” Sam commands and bends down to bite Dean’s collarbone, skin splitting under his teeth.

Dean growls. It’s been too long. His body wants to crawl from inside his skin to be under Sam’s possession, and Dean has no part of him that wants to resist his brother.

Dean curls his fingers into fists in Sam’s unruly hair and brings Sam’s face closer, eyes fixed on Sam’s, setting the rules. Dean holds Sam’s face, while his slightly open mouth travels against his brother’s cheekbone, his jaw, leaving tiny marks with the teeth, not letting Sam move closer. Sam holds still, accepting the rules, growling low in his throat. Dean brushes his lips against Sam’s, eyes opened, watching Sam’s every breath in and out. Dean’s tongue darts out to lick Sam’s lower lip, soothing the caused pain, and when Sam closes his eyes, whimpering, Dean lets him go, and bites Sam’s earlobe, whispering fiercely, “fuck me.”

Dean doesn’t know what kind of rules apply to this dream, but the clothes don’t disappear, and Sam almost tears them apart with his teeth, feverish and out of control.

Sam uses his spit and pushes inside Dean, not waiting for him to adjust, rough and uncaring, and Dean doesn’t need any other way. He meets Sam’s hard thrusts; his back arching off the bed, pain and pleasure all packed in one until the only pain left is caused by Sam’s blunt fingernails scratching Dean’s back and ass. Sam fucks with all his power and strength, not slowing down, and Dean answers his every move, matching every thrust, demanding harder with each pull of Sam’s hair, each bite of Sam’s lips.

Time stretches out beyond the normal time limit; they seem to fuck endlessly, harsh breathes and growls are a background for the tattoo’s crazy rhythm, outracing their hearts’ beating.  Dean comes, and he dies for a moment; Sam following him, and then, they start again, bringing each other back, collecting the pieces and fucking each other roughly, feeling alive, till they break again.  Moving in one endless circle.

They seem to fuck into oblivion. Dean doesn’t let Sam go, keeping him tight against his body, as close as possible, every blood cell screaming to disembogue into Sam’s blood, pumping loudly through his veins.

Before Dean blacks out, Sam whispers into his ear, nibbling, “I’ve got a present for you, Dean.”  

 

 

Dean wakes up alone in the bed, to the sounds of heavy rain hammering against the windows of cabin. _Sam was here._

The crackling voice of the radio that Dean definitely hadn’t switched on informs him of the heavy floods in the Northwest and disasters in California. Dean listens intently as the same worried voice comments about deaths in Palo Alto and the destruction of Stanford University’s campuses. Dean’s stomach gives a tingling sensation of excitement and joy, and Dean decides to take a drive for a closer look to his present.

When Dean stands up, wincing, body hurting in all the right places, he looks down at the evidences of Sam’s presence – bite marks and hickeys all over his body, and he can’t stop the smirk from appearing on his face.

   
  


 

Palo Alto greets Dean with gloomy weather and consequences of hurricane.  Dean welcomes them both with the head tilted slightly back in pride, eye shining. _His Sammy did that for him._

Dean leaves the Impala on the side of the road, as far away from the evidences of disaster as he manages–hand brushing the hood in apology–and takes a walk. He seeps in all the details, registering every broken glass and fallen tree, bright green grass stained with dried blood. His mind recalls the past, comparing the pictures from out of the corners of his mind with the present.

_Dean lurking in the shadows, watching his brother lying in the green grass in front of the campus, book in his hands, head in Jessica’s lap as she bends down to kiss him._

Blind jealousy of the ghosts ripping him from inside startles Dean, and he shakes his head, blurred vision fades away leaving him with a clear present. Dean likes the present better. Sam is his. His to fuck and kill.

“Dean Winchester?” Dean turns around sharply, looking as some young guy approaches him, eyes wide in fear, steps unsure and forced.

“Yeah,” Dean barks in greeting, baring his white teeth in a dark smile.  
  
“Some tall guy told me to hand it to you,” the guy says, hand shaking as he stretches it out, offering Dean a small blue velvet box in his open palm.   
  
Dean doesn’t move, eyes pining the guy into place, freezing him, as Dean picks up needed information from his mind easily. Through the smog of clear, pure horror, Dean sees his brother, crazy and dangerous, so amazingly beautiful, as he hypnotizes the guy and commands, “You should wait here for Dean Winchester. Brown hair, leather jacket, shorter than me and bossy as hell.” Sam gives his smirk to the guy along with the box.   
  
The image disappears into the thick air, and Dean takes the box from the guy, his smirk matching Sam’s.   
  
Without any word, Dean turns and walks away, not casting another glance toward the guy.  
  
Dean opens the box when he relaxes into the Impala’s leather seat. Fingers brushing the box with gentleness; Dean opens it to find his pendant, shiny as new. Dean pulls out the pendant, holding it by the strap, letting in spin slowly in the air. He inhales the air, and his brother’s scent fills his nostrils. Dean can clearly see the image of Sam hanging the pendant around his neck and wearing it proudly before giving it to the guy.  
  
Dean does the same, returning the pendant on its rightful place and wondering what that crazy brother of his did to Lilith.   
  
  
  
  
  
Castiel stands in a circle of symbols burning around him in a dark basement. He chants in Latin, words powerful and ancient, bringing to life angry whispers from every dark corner. The storm outside is roaring like a wrathful spirit, and Castiel closes his eyes, concentrating, trying to break through a trap Sam Winchester generously prepared for him.   
  
When Castiel’s blue eyes fly open, Sam is still there, standing in front of him, only one step away from the circle, watching him trying to set himself free with an expression of mock concern.  
  
“Don’t fight it, Castiel. I only want to talk to you.” Sam says soothingly.   
  
Wooden stairs start squeaking as Tom comes down. Sam turns his head back to fasten his eyes on Tom’s for a brief moment and then, shifts all his attention back to Castiel, eyes dark. Not facing any sign of protest, Tom comes to stand beside Sam’s side, holding a shining blade tight in his hand, observing Castiel with the apathetic look.   
  
The light bulb hanging over their heads blows up, and Tom frowns, displeased. Castiel’s eyes follow only Sam’s reaction, a tiny smile appearing on Sam’s face. “You should try harder.”   
  
The basement doesn’t sink into the darkness as the natural lighting from high windows provides enough light, despite the storm, and Castiel considers breaking the windows.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that it if I was you,” Sam offers matter-of-factly.  
  
Loud squeaks coming from the stairs inform them of another guest.   
  
“I want to be in as well,” the light demand in Meg’s voice is only a game, underneath is the request. Eyes shining, Meg approaches them.  
  
Castiel tears his eyes away from Sam for a moment, distracted by the immediate change of Tom. The boredom and annoyance fade away, replaced by thinly veiled expressions of happiness and wildness. Tom lights up with each step Meg takes, her movements intentionally slow and smooth, looking as if she’s lulled by him, not tearing her eyes from him.   
  
Meg leans close to Tom, arms on his hips. She tilts her head down and watches Tom’s reaction as the tip of her tongue travels against the blade he holds.   
  
Tom pulls his hand into her hair roughly and pushes his tongue into her mouth. They kiss as they fuck, wild, open mouthed and desperate, while Tom’s blade slides against her cheekbone, cutting her skin.  
  
Castiel averts his eyes, mouth a thin line, irritated by the demons’ weakness.  
  
“Not here,” Sam’s blunt order pulls them apart faster than a shotgun, and they watch him warily, while Sam keeps his gaze fixed on Castiel.  
  
With a light smile playing on his lips he dismissed them. “Go upstairs.”   
  
As Meg and Tom leave together, bodies close, eyes burning, Sam leans down toward Castiel as if he wants to step into the circle, and Castiel’s eyes turn into slits, not knowing what to expect next.  
  
“I don’t like being interrupted, and I’d like to discuss this thing in private. Family business, y’know,” Sam confesses in a soft voice, eyes hazel and understanding. “Before we start, you need to promise me something. I’m not sure I thanked you properly for bringing my brother back– My bad.” Sam puts his hand against his chest as if in apology. “But I don’t like that nasty mark on his shoulder,” and then, there’s the real Sam, eyes turning dark, voice barely controlled as his anger threatens to boil over. “I am the only one with the right to mark him. We both know it. I need you to erase this mark and any signs that it was there in a first place.”  
  
“I don’t take orders from human beings.”  
  
Sam laughs bitterly, “Who said I was?”   
  
Abruptly, there are screaming and sounds of something crashing coming from the upstairs.  
  
Sam tilts his head up, eyebrows raised, wincing at the noise. “Don’t mind them. Crazy kids.” Sam offers as an explanation.  
  
“But you and I–,” Sam’s crooked smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “–we see the big picture. These Azazel’s kids are what your heaven needs.” Sam extends his middle finger in a rude gesture as if just pointing up towards the sky, lifting his gaze up with a smile. Castiel jerks his head when realization hits him.   
  
“Right, Wingy?” Sam smirks down at him.  
  
“You want Hell on Earth, Samuel?” Castiel raises his voice.  
  
There’s a hint of remorse in Sam’s voice when he continues, “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but look around. Hell is already here.”


	13. Chapter 13

Standing on top of the mountain is like having a world put upon your palm. Small buildings, pocket-sized trees, blue water that must be a lake, and no people. People are too small, invisible. They are imperceptible to this world.   
  
They’re not even toys to play with. They are just objects of no concern to the world. Unfortunately, they hold the power to destroy it.  
  
Dean breathes in and out. He takes a deep breath of fresh air, listening to how it fills his lungs and tries to ignore any other sound. The conspiratorial beat of his tattoo and his heart is too loud to be left unnoticed. Annoying sound of the things that don’t belong to him, the ones that are longing for their master, and Dean is not baked enough to cave in and crawl back to Sam.  
  
The pendant on his neck burns, imprinting a permanent red mark on his skin, a constant reminder, but Dean welcomes this pain despite the last owner of the thing. At least, this brand hurts, unlike the one that adorns his shoulder, granting Dean a chance to feel something.  
  
  
  
  
  
The silence envelops Oklahoma City. Streets are deserted and neat, attempting to lull the tourists into the deceptive peace and quietness.  
  
Bobby walks through the streets, alert and wary, cap pulled tight to the brow. He glances backwards when he senses eyes on him. Feeling goose bumps on his skin, he wants to blame the cold as the only reason for it, but his instincts scream of the demons hiding inside well-kept buildings and anticipating their time to play.  
  
From the corner of his eye, to his right, Bobby catches movement, and his whole body turns towards the potential threat, demon-killing knife held tight in his hand.   
  
Missouri comes out of one of the buildings, measured tread; grey, wool jacket topping a floral dress serves the misleading impression of a classy, old lady.   
  
The corners of her mouth twitch as her gaze slides over the knife, “Humans are so distrustful.”  
  
Missouri’s light teasing is welcomed by Bobby’s hard stare. “I wonder why,” he says dryly.  
  
Raising his gaze to run over the building beside her, he comments, “You told your jackals to stay put? They can come and take a closer look; I don’t mind. I don’t like being peeped at.”  
  
She gives him a condescending smile, eyes boring into his to drag out the thoughts he doesn’t want to share, while she keeps talking, “It’s only for grown ups, Bobby. We need privacy to talk about our dear boys.”  
  
Scowling at her soon-to-be-successful attempts in reading his mind, he growls low, eyes not leaving hers, “Don’t try to play with me, woman.”  
  
Missouri pays him no attention. A long minute passes by while Bobby tries to keep his head from splitting into two, headache getting close to the line of unbearable, and he winces, fingers curling into fists involuntary.   
  
Missouri’s hard gaze shifts away. She lets him go, taking away the throbbing pain in his skull.   
  
Bobby takes a lungful of breath, uncontrolled panic forcing the sound to come out louder than he prefers before he catches himself. His gaze fastens on Missouri’s bright eyes as she seems to be satisfied with what she had found in the depth of his mind.  
  
“I needed a guarantee you didn’t come to fool me, handsome,” she offers a fake excuse for fiddling around inside his brain, before bursting into mocking laughter, white teeth shown.  
  
Bobby watches her silently, eyes narrowed, the unhidden disdain and disgust on his face is partly intended for himself.   
  
He questions his own sanity, eyes fixed on Missouri’s throat while she laughs. It would be so easy to get a tight grip on her neck and break her bones, while twisting the knife inside her. After, to just turn around and leave and forget he ever answered when the demon called and suggested to fix a common problem with Winchester boys ending the world.   
  
He can’t remember now what was he thinking, coming here, to the city fully packed with demons to make a deal against his own family.   
  
Her voice interrupts his thoughts, sounding on the side of pissed, “don’t you, soulful, _careless meal_ , just love to live in denial?! Deal with it already, you old fool. Your so-called family is one step away from erasing the whole population from the face of the earth. Humans, demons, angels, doesn’t matter. They are all the same for these murderers.”  
  
Bobby’s head jerks at the insult, “You watch your tongue. I’m not afraid using the present I brought.”  
  
Her lips curl in a scornful smirk, “One demon down and the world is still ending. What’s the point?”  
  
Bobby casts his gaze away in an attempt to clear his head while considering his options, trying to come up with any other solution that will stop his boys, and comes up blank just like the hundreds of times before.   
  
His eyes are challenging when he looks back at Missouri’s, daring her to give him an excuse to stab her, “Give me one good reason why I should trust you.”  
  
Missouri’s smile is disturbingly sad when she speaks, “Because this is the end of the world and we all are going to die, one way or another. Do you want to waste the only chance we’ve got?”  
  
“Just talk,” Bobby says, beaten, looking away for a moment before turning his gaze back to her, emotions put together, face blank.   
  
Her plan makes his whole body turn cold while he listens intently, turning off other senses.  
  
  
  
  
  
Dean doesn’t sleep. His body doesn’t demand this urge from him, but from time to time, he closes his eyes and lets his mind flow, stalling a fire that burns inside him and promises to never leave.  
  
Sometimes, the images pass by behind his closed eyelids, the images he forgot the names of, but he remembers what it is. _To dream._  
  
Dean allows the images to take him away, drowning into them, even though he forgets most of them when he wakes up.  
  
The image of a man in trench coat in his dream makes Dean’s body twitch, breath audibly catching. Dean knows the man.  
  
“Dean Winchester,” Castiel says solemnly, the same exacting, pain-in-the ass-angel as always. “I don’t have much time, but you are the only one who can stop Sam from interfering with God’s will.”   
  
“And why would I do that?” Dean drawls out, voice sweet and thick, tilting his head to scrutinize the angel’s hidden despair better.  
  
“You are a good man,” Castiel answers, ridiculously dead-serious tone in place, and Dean is the right guy to appreciate a good joke.   
  
Dean laughs out loud until tears start forming in the corners of his eyes, “Sam never told me what a funny, old bunch angels are, but I think you ought to have a good sense of humor to get over all the sick jokes God almighty likes to throw your way.”  
  
It takes a moment for the angel to hide his displeasure before starting to spill the facts like reading off a grocery list. “Your brother wants to perform a ritual using Lilith’s power in order to throw me inside Tom’s body and send me to Heaven. It will destroy the natural order. No demon is allowed to step through Heaven’s gate.”  
  
“Huh,” Dean considers angel’s words for a moment, gaze prodding. “Can he do that?!”  
  
“If he kills Lilith and takes her strength, Sam’s power will be enough. He can easily lock me with demon in one host. Under Sam’s control, I won’t be able to take power inside the vessel. I will be trapped with the demon.”  
  
Dean’s laughter is deep and genuine in answer, “Well, fuck. Isn’t he peeing on your parade big time?! I guess I raised one smart boy, Wingy.”  
  
Castiel’s head jerks at the insult. “This is the name Sam uses.”  
  
Dean stays unaffected by the words, “And I should be surprised by this why?”  
  
The angel keeps looking at Dean intently as if in attempt to read his mind, and Dean starts to get bored.   
  
Dean’s gaze turns cold. “Give my heartfelt condolences to your father, Castiel. And he’d better keep his sacred paws off my brother or Sammy’s little plan would be a picnic in comparison with what I might do.”   
  
The angel disappears in an instant, and Dean wakes up, opening his eyes and blinking into dark nothingness while the grass around him starts to burn and provides him with a light.  
  
  
  
  
  
Meg likes to watch Tom, to watch the sunlight dance across his face or allow the moonlight to caress his skin. The shell makes no difference to her; Meg only sees her brother, the core. The suit is just a shadow protecting the spirit from inobservant eyes.  
  
When Sam reveals his plan to them – not offer, nor discussion, just a statement and lurking threat for any possibility of reluctance – Meg tries to keep the shiver from appearing on the surface of her borrowed body.   
  
One short and observing glance up at Tom’s excited face helps her to get the feelings under control. For Tom, this news is a blessing, an honor to be chosen, to be the only demon sent to the gates of Heaven.  
  
There’s no acknowledge of the consequences except of firm understanding of the damage it will cause to Heaven and the angels. And it’s enough for Sam, who can’t stand being a pawn in someone’s game. It’s enough for Tom. Not for Meg.  
  
Hell, for all Meg cares, Sam can kill himself any way he wishes; he’s steadily crossing the line to suicidal not bearing being away from Dean for too long.   
  
Meg doesn’t even want to know what it’s like to have the person that keeps the meaning of life for you back, only to lose him after.   
  
But she can relate, too.  
  
Only now, Sam is the one that constitutes a threat to her Tom.   
  
Unfortunately, this is what Tom wants. Meg can’t argue with that.   
  
  
  
  
  
Dean is driving toward no place in particular, windows rolled down. Music blares loudly from the speakers and serves as the perfect soundtrack to his mood, protecting him from the surrounding silence.  
  
He drives through some town with the welcoming road sign nowhere to be seen. Dean pays it no attention. _Another soon-to-be dead town._  
  
The phone in a telephone booth standing alongside the road starts ringing demandingly when Dean passes by, but the sound is left unheard. The car endows the booth only with the stones flying out from beneath its wheels.  
  
The second and third telephone booths welcome Dean with the same sharp ringing, but the loud music dampens any other sound.   
  
Eyes fixed on the road, Dean hums along with the song when his eyes catch movement in front of him, and Dean tilts his head, frowning, watching the tree by the side of the road start to vibrate and fall down.   
  
Dean instantly slams on the brakes, tires screeching, stopping simultaneously with the tree collapsing on the ground in front of the car.   
  
Dean turns off the music with one shift movement, breathing out, letting out the air he was holding, emotions jumping from worried to pissed off and back. _No one dares to harm his girl._  
  
Dean hurriedly gets out of the car to check his baby. All his attention is fixed on the shiny, black metal. Dean caresses the curves of the warm hood with his palm, muttering apologies for any possibility of a threat and promising to wax her later.   
  
The minute Dean is assured his girl is safe and sound, he draws a long, deep breath of relief that is interrupted by a loud ringing in the nearest phone booth.  
  
Dean’s head jerks towards the insistent sound, and he knows he should pick it up. Dean looks around warily for a moment, the ringing sound the only thing breaking the silence, and he approaches the booth, watchful of the surroundings.   
  
“Hello,” Dean says curtly in greeting, wanting to bark out and refraining himself as he already can name the person on the other end of the line. There is only one name for him to choose anyway.  
  
“Come back home, Dean,” Sam says, defeated and uncaring of it. “Come back to me.”  
  
Dean’s gaze lingers on the Impala before slowing his breathing and answering reasonably. “We can’t be together in one place. You know it, Sammy. The world will end if we are.”  
  
“Hell with it,” Sam’s tone shifts, voice rising, fed by anger and frustration. “The world already has a one way ticket to Hell. Who cares?!”  
  
Dean interrupts his outburst by sharing the latest information, displeasure in his voice. “And you’re doing a damn well job on fucking Heaven the same way. Right, little brother?”  
  
The next few minutes are filled with harsh breathing and silent arguing on both sides. Dean hates those minutes.  
  
Sam says the next words with determination in his voice, but Dean recognized a veiled plea for understanding behind Sam’s statement, “They have to pay. _All_ of them. I wanted only one thing. I fought for it, brought it back, and then it was stolen away. Heaven, Hell, I don’t care. They will pay.”  
  
Sam is silent for a moment, and Dean can hear him begging without saying the words out loud, _“Please, Dean. Please, I need you.”_  
  
Dean clears his throat, because his answer is always _“yes, Sammy”_ , but it is trapped inside his throat by his stubbornness, and Dean comes up with the safer replacement, “And if you have me back, what will change?”   
  
There’s no doubt in Sam’s voice when he continues. “I have you by my side when the world is ending. It is ending one way or another, but as long as I have you, I’ll have one hell of happy ending, Dean.”  
  
Dean should be mad. Dean should end this call and drive away to keep distance between them, but a soft smile already plays at the corner of his lips. “I hope you’re ready for a wildfire, Sammy.”  
  
Sam’s laugh is bright and joyful in answer. Dean wants to taste it with his lips.


	14. Chapter 14

A little town in Maryland turns into a ghost town and is too small to draw attention to it. A little town in Maryland has an angel, two demons and one monster trapped inside.

Sam thinks that little town in Maryland will soon need fireworks and a red carpet.

 

 

With each passing day, the big event of smashing Castiel and Tom together gets closer, and Meg gets restless.

These days, she can’t keep her eyes and hands off Tom, using every minute to own every inch of him, to mark her territory with spit and blood before an angel enters.

 

 

When the radio informs them of fires changing destination from West Coast to East, Meg’s head jerks towards Sam while her hand blindly finds Tom sitting next to her, nails biting into flesh and leaving bloody scratches on his forearm.

“Dean is coming”, Sam announces, smile big and savage.

Meg watches Sam go outside, his happiness too big and destructive to be held in the house. Tom soothes Meg with the filthy whispers in her ear and a suggestion to move upstairs.

 

 

When Tom fucks Meg on the floor, his hand pressing between her shoulders and keeping her from writhing, big fat drops of rain start pounding on the roof.

 

 

Dean is a hurricane.

Dean is disaster, fire and death coming Sam’s way. Dean is blood and bones, the soul and heart of Sam. Dean is so much more than what the world can give Sam.

 

 

Sam stands in the middle of Main Street, soaking wet, eyes burning. Darkness and pouring rain surround him, trying to cloud his vision, and Sam needs flashing party lights for Dean.

The thunderstorm gains power, sky turning an array of colors. Blue and black, green and red. The constant striking of lightning illuminates the sky, and Sam laughs happily with each strike.

Trees and power lines are getting knocked down, and it seems that the sky is one step from crushing down into the ground.

 _This is Dean’s red carpet and fireworks_ , Sam thinks.

In the distance, the horizon line gets clearer, red light illuminating it with the flames. Red starts approaching Sam with the black flash that relentlessly blazes through flame and thunder.

Sam is blind and deaf with happiness. Statue solid in the middle of Main Street, not intending to move while the world around him gets purified with holy rain and sacral flame.

Dean stops the car with a grinding sound, a twenty inch space between his girl and his brother. Dean has got everything he wants close and tied up in one place.

Sam is hard and needy, and Dean climbs out of the car to throw himself at his brother.

Open road is wide enough for Winchester boys to spill their longing, need and love.

Sam is knocked off his feet and pushed down. He’s underneath Dean, and they both tremble with need, eyes thirsty. Then, they start fighting for control and submission, not sure which one to give, rolling and biting each other. Not kissing. Kissing is fragile, and they both might go insane.

Dean licks a long stripe down Sam’s throat, and Sam is done, breath hitching. He wants Dean, above him, under him, inside him. He _wants_.

Their clothes are wet and dirty. It takes time and teeth to tear them apart, but they want to feel every inch of skin. Lighting strikes above them, and they see each other in the flashes of light.

Dean _finally_ smashes their mouths together – they’re beyond going insane anyway – and Sam wonders if he can lick a flame off Dean’s mouth.

Dean kisses him, using Sam’s mouth as if it belongs to him, and takes all the oxygen away, filling Sam with consuming fire and devouring need.

Sam gasps and cries, naked back and ass writhing against the wet asphalt while Dean’s lips and hands claim their property. The rain drops try to lick into Sam’s mouth in attempt to invade Dean’s territory, but Dean’s heat turns them into steam.

“Sammy,” says Dean, and Sam lifts his hips in invitation. He’s done waiting.

Dean’s eyes are two burning dark lights, watching Sam’s every movement. Dean doesn’t use his fingers or his mouth on Sam’s hole, he lifts Sam’s left leg up and pushes inside, splitting Sam open.  

It hurts, and it’s perfect. Sam screams, and he needs Dean’s mouth to swallow his cries.

Dean moves with sharp thrusts, and Sam rolls his hips to take Dean deeper, body quivering. He forgets to breathe, clinging to his brother firmly, arms and legs locked around Dean’s body, teeth biting into Dean’s skin, every part tangled in _his_ Dean.

Dean sets up a fire inside Sam, and he is the only one who can extinguish it. Nothing has changed. Sam feels the heat inside and outside, flames licking his body, while the rain keeps his body slick and protected.

Dean pulls out to drive in with a shuddering hard thrust inside Sam and stills for a moment. Sam opens his eyes, whining, despair forcing him to try and fuck himself on his brother’s cock, but Dean’s fingers dig into his ass, holding him still.

“Look around, Sammy. This is what we are,” Sam’s gaze tears off his brother to take a note of the circle of flames they’re in, of pouring rain soothing the heat, of the dark sky that lights up their bodies with each flash of a lightning strike.

“Do you like what you see?” Dean asks harshly, and Sam’s gaze settles back on his brother, looking into green eyes.

“Yes,” Sam says, determination in his voice, eyes fixed on Dean’s in attempt to read him.

In answer, Dean smirks, taking control back, his hips moving back and slamming forward into Sam roughly. Sam’s mouth opens in silent cry, body trembling, as he finds support in Dean’s solid body, holding on while Dean fucks the life out of him.

Floating between happiness and insanity, the pleasure erasing the borderlines, Sam reaches the edge between life and death, heart pounding like crazy and threatening to stop beating. With a final gasp, Sam opens his eyes to watch Dean leading him further.

Sam begs hoarsely “please” before he comes and almost blacks out, watching Dean throughwhiteness, giving in.

Dean gets desperate and greedy, rapidly fucking into Sam’s limp body. He loses control, biting into Sam’s shoulder, teeth leaving droplets of blood forming on the flesh while he fills Sam.

Later, Dean comes back to life with a short shallow breathing into Sam’s ear when Sam whispers, “Look what I’ve got for you, baby.”

Dean tilts his head, still buried inside Sam, and watches fireworks exploding in a dark sky.

 

 

Meg doesn’t like to be in the room with both Sam and Dean. Unfortunately, they don’t spend a minute apart, and her suit shivers every time they’re close.

Too much of a primal force. They both are god-like creatures, escaped from Heaven and thrown out of Hell.

They talk to each other by sharing glances and tilts of their heads. They don’t seem to care who will walk on them while they’re fucking as they use every surface and opportunity for it, but Meg and Tom are smart enough to understand that the punishment will follow.

When Dean says that he is bored, Sam takes him downstairs _to have a chit-chat with an angel._ Meg and Tomprefer to leave the house when it’s happening.

It’s not extreme measures; they just want to keep each other safe.

 

 

One day Sam comes to Dean with the spark in his eyes and murder on his tongue.

“I’ve got a present wrapped up and waiting for you. Bloody, red ribbon for you to open.” Sam’s huge boyish grin does things to Dean’s heart.

Dean leans closer to Sam, letting his tattoo slide against his brother’s and soak up information while he closes his eyes and listens. _Thump, thump, thump._

“Lilith,” Dean murmurs, delighted and pleased, raising his shining eyes to look at his brother, smirking as if he already knows the answer to the following question. “Wanna be my Valentine, Sammy?”

Sam nods in answer and catches Dean’s earlobe between his teeth, whispering hotly, “Your bloody Valentine, Dean.”

Dean’s matching smile is interrupted by Sam’s hunger for Dean’s mouth.

Sam kisses like no one else.

 

 

Dean wants it to be special.

Sam doesn’t give a fuck about how the bitch dies as long as they take away her power, but Dean wants it to be special, and Sam would do everything for his date.

Dean inspects the place while happily humming some song, giving himself a tour, as if he’s a potential buyer and he and Sam are planning to move in. Sam plays with the idea and watches Dean with fondness in the eyes.

Unfortunately, Lilith makes a shitty realtor, curses and filth pouring from the cage she’s locked in.

Sam scowls. If the bitch ruins Dean’s happy mood, she’s _so gonna pay_.

Sam’s attempt to reach the cage and shut up Lilith is stopped by Dean’s strong voice. “Wait, Sam.”

Sam turns to meet Dean’s eyes, frowning, and is welcomed by Dean’s genuine smile. “No need to rush. Trust me, Sammy.”

To drive his point home, Dean kisses Sam until his brother is in a state to let Lilith go if Dean asks, but Dean has other plans.

The best way to deal with the rudeness is to cast spells in Latin, over and over. Soon, Lilith’s curses turn into loud screaming.

Sam’s face splits into a wide, proud smile. The sounds coming out of Lilith’s mouth? Sam likes them way better.

After, Dean gets creative and starts twisting the pendant between his fingers while spitting the holy water into Lilith’s face, and the bitch cries, washed out and powerless.

But Dean is not done. He has a kit of knives, and he missed playing darts.

Sam is watching his brother the whole time with shining eyes and a blissful smile. Sam is a perfectpicture of cheerful audience.

When Lilith dies – Dean starts the exorcism to test how long she lasts – Dean pouts a little, looking down at the body. _He liked that game. But, well…_

Dean shrugs and puts the pendant backaround his neck, turning to face Sam.

“Let’s christen thehouse,” Dean smiles happily as Sam tugs at his t-shirt.

 

 

They take it slow. Sam is pliant and needy, wanting everything at once, every part of his brother.

But Dean wishes to map every part of Sam’s body with his tongue and teeth, leaving red marks and getting all the right noises out of Sam.

After, Dean rides Sam until they both come, sticky and happy.

Dean says “thank you for the present” into Sam’s skin and shares it later against Sam’s lips.

“Did you like our date?” Sam asks quietly, eyes shining brightly in the darkness of the room.

Sometimes Sam needs to hear the words out loud, and Dean knows a substitution for “ _I’m not gonna leave you anymore_ ”.

“It didn’t suck, but you have a whole life to prove that you can do better, Sammy.”

Sam’s laughter is full of promises.

 

 

Meg and Tom are still in the house when the Winchesters come back.

Meg watches them warily. The two brothers look like they were on honeymoon and not killing one of the most powerful demons.

Considering their abilities, Meg welcomes them with haunted eyes, wondering what they will do after they read her mind and know the plan of escaping with Tom while they were out. 

Sam looks at her, mouth a thin line, displeased and angry, while Dean scolds her “bad, bad girl”, and then, tugs at his brother’s jacket for him to follow Dean upstairs.

In answer, Sam’s lips curl up in happiness while he blocks out the world around them and sees only Dean.

They do act like they’re back from honeymoon.

 

 

The day the fire almost burns the house they’re all in, Sam approaches Tom with the words “Get ready.”

Meg hates Sam. She can’t keep her eyes off the purple bruise on his neck, boiling loathing inside her throat. _You get to have this, and I don’t?_  

Sam’s eyes pin her to the place. “Be careful, Meg. You’re slipping.” Meg’s rage is nothing compared to the whirl of darkness in Sam’s eyes.

Meg lowers her head and takes a few steps back. She guesses she spent a lot of time watching Sam giving his love and fondness to his brother to forget what Sam is. To forget what he gives to the rest of the world.

 

 

Meg spendsthe next hours covered in Tom’s blood and come, and she cries when it’s over because it will never be enough.

 

 

The power in the house is off, and the thunder threatens to flood them, filling the air with a thick oxygen, metallic taste on their tongues.

All of them are gathered downstairs, watching Castiel try to use the last tricks he’s got under his wings.

When Castiel’s eyes dim and he starts praying, Dean’s face lights up like it’s Christmas, and Sam kisses him because it’s their party and Dean is the hero of the occasion.

“What’s the matter, Castiel? Your call is sent straight to the voicemail?” Sam interrupts the prayers, pulling out the knife. “Don’t worry, later you can tell your father what a son of bitch he is. In person. ”

Sam’s eyes shift toward Tom, sliding over the vessel’s body as if tearing him into molecules, and Meg fights the urge to step in front of her brother as Tom’s fingers squeeze hers to keep her from doing such a stupid thing.

“I ordered a new young body just for you, angel. As a bonus, you’ll get to be fucked on a pretty regular basis. A friendly note to you, this girl likes to be on top. Not that I tried–,” Sam’s gaze finally settles on Meg’s wild eyes.

Dean is the one who answers instead of Meg or Tom. His fingers push on Sam’s throat, right above the pulse point, and when Meg looks into his green eyes, she has to look away right after.

It’s not about the predator she sees in Dean. It’s about flames and rage that will burn the world if Sam is not careful, if Sam uses the wrong words around Dean and steps on thin ice on the subject of belonging.

Sam slowly, but surely, shifts – with knife in his hand that he’s not intending to use on that particular person and Dean’s grip tight on his throat – until he’s shielding Dean’s whole body from prying eyes.

Tom tries to force Meg to turn away, wrapping his arms protectively around her shoulders to block her view of them.

 _Not safe_ , he whispers. But Meg still turns her head, entranced.

She can’t seem to stop watching Sam’s back, lulled by _them_ , by the flip-of-switch-change she witnesses right now. By their ability to turn off the world as if it’s just a movie green screen and the Winchester boys play only whenever they want.

Sam’s words are only for Dean’s ears to hear as Sam tilts his head down, their foreheads touching. Meg catches Sam’s low murmur “Only you. I’ll kill her if you need proof,” as Dean’s fingers gradually loosen their grip.

Tom’s gaze sharpens on Dean as soon as he steps to stand beside his brother. Now, that it concerns Meg, Tom is not in themood for peaceful negotiation.

“Don’t worry, Tommy boy, your girlfriend is safe,” Dean addresses with a smirk and turns towards Castiel, while Meg tries to smooth Tom’s irritation by bending his head down, her eyes drilling into his, whispering soothing words of Latin against his lips.

She knows what works with Tom, even though it always feels to her as if she’s calming the snake.

It takes a few seconds of looking inside Tom’s eyes, talking to his core, for the storm in Tom’s eyes to fade out, and he lets Meg go, straightening up.

Meanwhile, Sam joins Dean – both are perfectly aware of their powerthat no one dares to challenge and areunconcerned of turning their backs – as they come to stand in front of Castiel, shoulders brushing.  

Dean says the words as if he’s sharing a secret, regret and friendliness in his quiet voice, “Sorry if you felt neglected. I have to take care of my family first. Some ground rules need to be pointed out from time to time.”

Then, Dean turns to Sam, taking the knife from him and smiles at Castiel, “Now, where were we?”

Castiel’s blue eyes follow Dean’s every move, and Meg can swear she finds disbelief in the angel’s eyes.

“I’m sorry I have to do this torture thing,” Dean croons as Sam almost twitches with excitement beside him. “But my asshole of a brother is having problems with your mark on my shoulder. And now, I need to demonstrate to him that you mean nothing to me. The things we do for love, huh?”

Dean’s words receive no sympathy from Castiel as his face turns cold, and he raises his head as if to see the sky through the ceiling.

“After all, you have no one to blame but yourself,” Dean finishes, raising his head as well, smirk curling at his lips.

When Dean starts chanting in Latin – Sam’s eyes shining brightly with pride and joy – Meg’s eyes widen.

The part of the monster at the end of the book was reserved for Sam, not for his brother.  It was his destiny.

Something has gone wrong, and she didn’t pay attention, tangled only in one thing.

Meg looks up to meet Tom’s knowing gaze. They both know they came too close to something they can’t handle. Something inevitable is coming, and they’ve already taken their seats.

But then, Tom smiles down at her, and she forgets to care, lost in him.  

 

 

The ritual is ancient and powerful.

Dean’s lips tingle while forming the words. It seems like an outside force controls the volume and intonation, and Dean is just a guide. Dean doesn’t like it _at all_.

Dean tilts his knife, the blade shining, and takes Sam’s palm in his to start drawing the lines with the tip of the knife, spells pouring off of his tongue.

When the knife bites into Sam’s flesh, Sam hisses, but he doesn’t remove his hand, eyes watching Dean with utter trust. The following cuts are deeper.

Dean’s palm is the next to use.

Sam is the one to produce the cuts, not Dean, as Sam only trusts himself with Dean, with harming Dean.

The blood is dripping down their fingers when Dean smashes their palms together. It gives birth to a spark and sets aflame; fire running through their hands for a few moments before it dies out, causing them no harm. 

Dean and Sam exchange a look while fire is shifting to burn inside their eyes.

The power is taken under control, locked inside their bodies as one vessel, flowing through both of them.

They both feel it, stuffed like a powder keg with gunpowder. It’s in their blood, thumping loudly; under their skin, tattoos beating violently.

Sam leans to catch Dean’s pendant between his fingers, but Dean’s body heat is drawing him closer, disorientating, messing with his head, and Sam has to close his eyes for a moment to remember that there’s aworld outside ofthem.

Sam opens his eyes when he manages to shake the feeling off and turns his head to grin at Castiel.

“Remember Lilith, Wingy? You really wanted her, but Dean wanted to play with her first. Unfortunately, my brother is one clumsy bastard when it comes to the toys and now–,” Sam is interrupted when Dean butts in with grumble “ _clumsy my ass, bitch_ ”, and Sam _has_ to give his brother a fond smile before his eyes settle back on Castiel. “Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Sorry, you weren’t invited. It was a private party.”

Sam finishes his speech and turns to stare at Dean, not blinking, letting the pendant slowly slip from between his fingers, while the two brothers allow the world to shift away for a moment and leave them alone.

They exchange a secret smile and then, turn back, in unison, toward Castiel, arms locked.

They both start chanting, their bodies two solid statues, and Castiel screams, light starting to pour out of him. 

The house starts making noises, voicing the protest by its parts creaking around them, shivering under their feet while the flames try to break through the holes in the floor, rain dripping through the cracks in the ceiling.

The Winchester boys keep chanting while the world around them dies screaming.

Meg wants them to stop. She wants to scream as well and force theWinchesters to stop. She looks up at Tom, eyes filled with horror and clings to him tightly. _She’ll be damned if she lets him go._

 

 

The moment everything stops and the noise trails off, Meg opens her eyes, only then realizing that they were closed.

The first thing she sees is Missouri, eyes pitch black and lips curled up in a stern smile.

“Boys,” Missouri shakes her head disapprovingly, “it’s good that you have someone to clean up your mess.”


	15. Chapter 15

Sam always knew his strengths and weaknesses. Sometimes, they blended and Sam couldn’t tell the difference.  
  
He remembers when he was in high school his dad used to fight with Dean over him – behind purposely closed by Dean doors – calling Sam a stubborn bastard, and then, Dean’s voice was covering his dad’s, pointing out that Sam was just determined.  
  
Sam had no problem with eavesdropping on their conversations, mentally taking Dean’s side, firm that his brother knew best.   
  
If Dean says so, it is true. Simple.  
  
And maybe the anger he almost chokes on now is big enough to lead to murder, but Sam doesn’t think it is a bad thing. He just doesn’t like when someone stands in his way.  
  
Sam trusts Dean to explain it to everyone that this is Sam being a goal-oriented person.   
  
  
  
  
  
When Missouri opens her mouth, ancient words poisoning the air, Sam looks at her for a moment, head tilted to the side. Deliberately observing.   
  
Her eyes are two black holes, not blinking, while her lips move and change the balance of forces.   
  
Sam concentrates his power on shutting her mouth in any way possible – involving cracking all the bones of the vessel and sending the demon straight back to Hell – but she is protected by some ensphering force that won’t let her go until the spell is complete. The trigger is pulled, and it won’t stop until it finds its intended target.   
  
Sam isn’t worried. There is no power in the world that can stop them, but he is intrigued.   
  
A wave of tension reflects off Dean and shatters Sam’s balance. Sam’s eyes flicker to his brother for a moment, going through every emotion and catching a disturbance, causing frown lines to appear across Sam’s forehead. Sam is the only one who is allowed to interfere with Dean’s feelings.   
  
“Done,” says Missouri, her eyes changing the color from pitched black to dark brown, and when Sam looks into her eyes, the memories of coming to this woman and looking for the answers leave a bitter taste in his mouth.   
  
It was a few lifetimes ago.  
  
Then, Tom howls into the silence, and Sam is jolted out of his composure.   
  
“What did you do, old witch?” Meg screams, kneeling in front of the fallen brother, and Sam reacts by snapping his gaze, his power slamming Missouri against the wall.  
  
“Talk,” Sam barely recognizes his own voice.  
  
Sam is not in the mood to wait for her to talk. He wants to split open her skull to fish for some answers, but Missouri wearily decides to open her mouth and spill the truth. “Azazel’s plan was not to be played with, boy. I had no choice but to cast a spell in order to put your powers down. I reduced your power, timed it to the time when Meg found you and helped raise you to your full force. The consequences that followed your power will be erased as well.”   
  
“Consequences?” Meg asks hollowly, understanding cracking her voice while her eyes turn black.  
  
Missouri pauses for a moment before answering sternly, “Every change that Sam’s power brought. Magic is a tricky thing, kids, didn’t you know?!”  
  
“Who helped you?” Sam growls as the rage suffocates him. She _had_ to have an ace up her sleeve.  
  
Missouri tilts her head up, obviously setting up her mind on not sharing this information, but Sam can easily read it off her mind.   
  
Sam’s power is still strong enough for such a simple trick.   
  
He sees Dean’s and his belongings, some old, blood stained shirts that linked her to their power and block it for a moment. And Sam sees a man who handed her their clothes.   
  
Sam sees it as clearly as Dean does.  
  
“Bobby,” Dean gasps next to him, and Dean’s pain of betrayal hits Sam low in the stomach.  
  
“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam offers a lie in comfort, fighting the urge to hold his brother. Sam’s insides turn cold as Dean shares his despair and fear, and Sam prays to keep a cool head.  
  
“Can you blame him?” Missouri bites out. “He didn’t want this world to die.”  
  
And that’s it. The cracking of her bones is step one to bring some satisfaction, step two is to hear her wail as the demon inside her _finally_ dies.   
  
Sam is left looking down at the broken shell, expecting some satisfaction to kick in that apparently got lost on the way to him.  
  
A cold and grim smirk draws across Sam’s face. He wishes he had time to prolong her death.  
  
  
  
  
  
There was a time when killing a person was out of Sam’s league. The time when he would rather put himself in danger than let innocent person suffer.  
  
That Sam couldn’t let Dean kill Meg because she was possessing some poor girl.  
  
That Sam is dead and buried six feet under.   
  
  
  
  
  
Castiel’s soft voice, “I’m sorry, Dean” is a bullet through Sam’s brain.   
  
“What do you want, angel?” Sam demands, violence in his voice. He turns jerkily to find Castiel unharmed and whole, and Sam isn’t surprised.  
  
“What-do-you-want?” Sam repeats, drawing out every word, feeling sick and vicious.  
  
“I will take care of Lilith,” Castiel continues, voice flat as he turns to face Sam, “She’ll be back soon, and I need to take her down. I’m sorry I can’t help, Dean. That’s all I wanted to say.”   
  
The next moment, he’s gone with a light ruffling noise, and Sam is left to face his chances, eyes set on Dean.  
  
Sam has trashed Dean into pieces before and still managed to bring back the damaged parts. Now, it’s not a time to run out of luck.  
  
  
  
  
  
Dean watches his brother with reserved eyes. His emotions are bare enough for Sam to feel, and his mask is the only thing he has left to hold onto.    
  
 _As long as I’m around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you.  
  
I've got you, little brother._  
  
Dean wants to say the words out loud, but the taste of ash on his tongue tells him that it is a lie.   
  
Bobby’s betrayal is another hole in Dean’s heart, leaving no other option for Dean but to indifferently accept it as another turned page of their lives. It was foolish to trust someone besides family anyway. It’s just another dirty dot to add to the map of their lives.   
  
In the end, they were always on their own, fighting and dying for each other, changing their destinies by using all their chances and crawling back into each other’s arms.   
  
Now, all their chances are used up, and their time is limited.   
  
Dean still watches his brother, _keeps watching after him_. In his head, he picks the right words in attempt to fix Sam before he’d leave his brother for good.   
  
They claimed, used, and shared seven lives, and now it’s time to pay back debts.   
  
  
  
  
  
“Do something,” Meg screams, her arms squeezing Sam’s shoulder. She doesn’t sound like a demon.   
  
Sam wants to laugh at how much her fear makes her look like a human, but his laugh is stuck somewhere in his throat.  
  
His power is fading; he feels it slipping through his fingers along with Tom. Turning into dust along with Tom. But he won’t tell her. It’s his last mercy.  
  
Tom is not coming back. Still, Tom is an attempt and chance to explode the ugly truth of the one who follows him after.  
  
When Sam concentrates and starts whispering the spells, invoking his power, he closes his eyes, afraid to catch hope in Dean’s eyes.   
  
  
  
  
  
Meg keeps holding Tom’s vessel tight in her arms.   
  
The full moon is mocking her from the window, and Meg tries her best to not look up. The moon is bloody, and it doesn’t make any sense. Meg doesn’t believe in signs.  
  
Tom’s eyes are open, and Meg looks deeper, her eyes trying to connect with a core and link it to her for an eternity.   
  
“Meg,” Tom manages, and Meg reaches down to breathe in his words, her lips brushing his, “I will find you.”   
  
Tom’s lips stop moving.   
  
Meg doesn’t trust the moon.   
  
When she slowly pulls apart enough to look into Tom’s eyes in order to identify the reason of it, to _deny_ the reason of it, she doesn’t find Tom.  
  
Sick realization makes her numb, and Meg keeps holding the dead shell.   
  
“Tom,” Meg tries. The shell is dead, but Tom cannot be. Meg’s eyes start moving around the place, searching for an answer. “We’re not done. We never will be. Please, just tell me what to do. Just tell me.”   
  
She waits for an answer, silent and hopeful.  
  
The bloody moon keeps mocking Meg, but Meg doesn’t believe in signs.   
  
For a moment, she freezes, the pain attacking her while she’s left alone and unprotected.   
  
Meg stands up swiftly, leaving the body on the floor and staring at it for a moment. _Letting go._  
  
Just another vessel of Tom. Not him. She needs to find Tom.  
  
“Where did Tom go?” Meg demands from Sam as he steps away, but he doesn’t answer, his eyes are only for Dean now.  
  
Meg watches Sam, recognizing him as her poor, mirrored reflection. Sam is Dean’s life away from stepping into Meg’s shoes.   
  
Sam walks as if his whole body is limp. His last attempt to gain force drained his strength, and now he’s just a puppet like they all are. Useless sinner.  
  
So much potential wasted on this weak human soul. Such a shame.  
  
Meg’s scornful gaze falls upon one thing that Sam has and she needs, and she bites out, “Give me the damn knife.”  
   
The cold metal makes a clicking sound when it lands on the floor.  
  
Meg’s only chance to know where Tom went is to follow him after. That’s Meg’s pro, no con is needed. She will find him _there_ , no matter where _there_ is. Time for a change of scenery.   
  
The knife easily slices through the human’s chest, and Meg lets out a sigh, feeling the scalding pain. Before Meg’s dead body falls over Tom’s, her soft smile is given to the shell at her feet.   
  
The bloody moon doesn’t change its color.  
  
  
  
  
  
When Sam was in college, he kept wondering. Every day, he kept wondering if today would be the day he gets a call or message from his father. _Dean is gone, son. Dean is gone._  
  
Because there was no Sam to look after Dean anymore, to tell him what a crap it is to die young and fighting, to bring him close and whisper in his ear “I’m not letting you go”.  
  
But this memory is an old, faded picture, and it had burnt through the fire and rain. Dean is stuck with Sam. Forever and beyond.   
  
This world belongs to Sam, and Dean is the center of it, moon and sun, Dean is always there. Solid. Present.  
  
Sam only needs to play his cards right.   
  
  
  
  
  
“This house feels like a coffin. We all are gonna end up buried in here.”   
  
Dean didn’t mean to say the words out loud, but he is slipping away, dropped between living and dead, and the border lines are wearing off.   
  
Still, Sam makes a face as if he doesn’t know to scream or to cry, and Dean wants to take the words back.   
  
“We need to do something”, Sam says and nods, agreeing with himself and looks around as if he can find the cure hidden somewhere in the room.   
  
“I’m falling,” Dean informs Sam, and his body sags on the floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
Dean watches the ceiling, body slack and unmoving on the dirty floor. When he turns his head to the side, he faces Sam, body pressed tightly against his own. Dean looks into the hazel eyes and he thinks he wants to smile. Sam’s body warmth is something he still manages to feel.  
  
“I might go insane, Dean,” Sam shares, his breath is hot on Dean’s cheek.  
  
Dean’s eyes want to close up so badly, but Dean keeps them open as Sam might go insane.  
  
  
  
  
  
They lay on the floor as one of them is fading away, and another one is dying to follow as a shadow.   
  
Dean’s body is hot and feverish, but he keeps whispering, “So cold, Sammy.”   
  
Sam’s body is a hot blanket over Dean’s skin, pressing down Dean’s body to keep him warm, but Dean still whispers, “so cold, Sammy,” and that’s when Sam starts to cry.  
  
  
  
  
  
The mark on Dean’s shoulder is the first to fade.   
  
Sam covers it with his palm, squeezing the skin to keep it in place, to keep his hope in place.   
  
“Stay,” for a first time Sam begs Castiel’s mark to stay permanent on Dean’s skin. But Sam’s wish was granted, and it was all a mean trick.  
  
  
  
  
  
Dean starts writhing underneath Sam, sobbing, as if Sam hurts him, as if Sam is the one killing him.  
  
Sam jerks away and looks down at his brother, eyes full of pain. _He is cursed to keep damaging Dean._  
  
Palm mashed against his own mouth to keep the cries inside, Sam wonders if his touch is soothing or hurting Dean now.  
  
Dean cries out loud, “Please, Sammy,” and Sam is there, tossing aside his thoughts and keeping Dean close, afraid to break him.  
  
Sam’s ears are buzzing from the rush of blood to his head, and he’s dizzy; his brother is the only clear thing in the world. Clear and holy.  
  
“Dean”, Sam begs desperately, his brother’s name is a prayer on his lips, “Dean, Dean. Stay.”  
  
Dean’s eyes are looking through Sam as if he’s gone blind, and another wave of sorrow hits Sam.   
  
“Why can’t I come back?” Dean gasps. “I can never come back. I can never come back.”  
  
Sam remembers.   
  
It was a long time ago. _Constance Welsh._  
  
“ _I can never go home_ ”, she said, but Sam didn’t pay attention back then. When it was black or white, Sam didn’t pay attention to a lot of things. Now, they caught him in the grey.  
  
“I won’t let you go, Dean.” Sam shares, but his raspy voice gives him away. It’s the other way around, tables turned. He will follow Dean after.   
  
That’s his new plan.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sun is setting up.  
  
Dean has gone silent and calm in Sam’s arms, and somehow it’s worse.   
  
Dean has a sad smile plastered on his lips, like this is the end, and Sam should get the memo as well.  
  
“I’m not leaving you, Dean,” Sam confesses, watching the sun streaming across the floor, sending the dust spinning, and forming the bright spots that fail in finding a way to them, “You should have let me go the first time, and now, I just keep coming for you. There’s no other way for us, big brother. Did you ever wonder why?” He finishes into silence, not expecting an answer.   
  
They are two dead bodies, waiting for clock to stop ticking.  
  
Dean is silent, and Sam shifts his gaze at his brother in time to catch Dean’s weak smile.   
  
“It’s all in our blood, Sammy,” Dean slurs.   
  
“Blood is your answer?” Sam asks dully, while something stirs inside him at the words.   
  
“Blood is always the key,” Dean’s eyes are shutting, and Sam softly kisses Dean’s closed eyelids while a tiny light of hope prevents him from following in Dean’s footsteps.    
  
From motel beds to their hearts, they shared everything under the golden sun and silver moon.   
  
Blood is a red color, a metallic taste and a flowing life through their veins. Sam is willing to give it a shot.  
  
Sam’s gaze runs across the floor where he locates the knife.   
  
“We have only one chance, Dean.” Sam says in apology, leaving Dean’s side to crawl and pick up the demon killing knife, wiping Meg’s blood off the blade against his shirt.   
  
Sam is back with shining blade and hopeful eyes.   
  
He watches Dean for a moment and waits for his brother to open his eyes and focus his blurry gaze on him.  
  
“Trust me,” Sam says in half-question, and Dean gives him a short nod.  
  
Sam slits his own wrist, watching dark red streaks appearing from an open wound, and holds his wrist to Dean’s cracked lips.  
  
Sam watches green eyes studying him doubtfully and waits. He can wait for Dean.   
  
But in his head Sam is counting. Time is ticking away, and Sam wants to know his enemy.   
  
Dean lips form firm “no”, and this is not happening. Sam is not accepting “no”. Dean’s only option is “yes”.   
  
It’s stubborn Dean against selfish Sam. But Sam wins this game since he’d steal this soul from death’s grip if he has to.   
  
Sam insists and begs, and his voice cracks at the words because he’s another “ _no_ ” away from breaking, “You have to. Please, Dean. That’s all I’ve got. Please.”   
  
Dean gives up when Sam’s pleas turn into raspy whispers, and Sam holds his breath, afraid to scare his luck away.  
  
Dean closes his eyes. That’s Sam’s cue, and Sam will take it.   
  
Dean’s mouth closes over Sam’s wrist, drinking, eyes shut tight, and Sam watches Dean’s lips turning red and sucking life out of him.   
  
Sam knows he cheats. Not a fair share. Only one life for Dean, and Dean is a whole universe.  
  
Gradually, the air turns thick and foggy. Sam’s chest tightens. A deep shuddering breath escapes Sam’s lips while his eyes start spreading wide.  
  
Sam blinks and listens to the thumping sound of his heart getting louder and filling the room, drowning Sam into the haze of pain and arousal. Sam drowns, feeling high and loved, and he wants to close his eyes and sleep forever.   
  
Sam’s head falls on Dean’s chest and Sam closes his eyes, giving himself away to Dean till the last drop. He is close, one step away from tripping beyond this world. So close.   
  
Dean is the one to pull Sam’s hand away, slapping Sam lightly. “Sammy! Wake up, dammit.”  
  
Sam’s head is heavy, and when he opens his eyes, the room is dark and spinning. Dean is a white light, wanting something from him, shaking Sam’s body, insisting and demanding, not giving him a chance to escape.   
  
Sam wants to tell him not to shake his dream off, lips moving, but Dean offers him something, screaming for him to take it, not listening.   
  
Sam opens and closes his eyes a few times, and the first clear thing is Dean’s bloody wrist in front of Sam’s eyes, and Sam wonders when did Dean get hurt?   
  
Dean must be in pain. Sam kisses Dean’s pulse point gently and licks the blood away to soothe the pain.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Sam slurs, not sure what he’s sorry for.  
  
After, he closes his eyes. His eyes sting. Someone threw sand in his eyes.  
  
Dean’s loud command “drink” leaves Sam no chances, forcing him to wake up, his mind disoriented and playing tricks with him.   
  
Dean is angry and hurt, and Sam had better listen to him and drink his milk before he goes to bed. He should listen to his big brother.  
  
Sam drinks, feeling the taste of metal explode in his mouth, spreading inside his body and occupying every cell, raising him above the earth and setting him fly.   
  
Sam spreads his wings. He’s free and strong, invincible, every human creature bows at his feet. Sam will bend this world to save Dean.   
  
Sam drinks until Dean pulls his hand away. Sam’s mouth opens to breathe in thick air, gasping, and then, Sam starts to shake badly, thirsty and sick. His eyes roll back in his head while his tongue licks away the drops of blood off his lips.   
  
Sam is lost, and he needs this, needs this _something_ so badly.   
  
He’s addicted and lost. _Dean!_  
  
Dean replaces his wrist with his mouth, and Sam quiets down, satisfied, his arm stretching to grip Dean’s neck and bring his brother closer, deepening the kiss, sharing the taste and color between two of them, growling low.   
  
Sam’s tongue explores Dean’s mouth until the only thing Sam can taste is Dean.   
  
Sam found him. Dean is everywhere. Dean is the earth and sky, and Sam is in love with the earth and sky.   
  
Sam breaks the kiss, and when he looks into Dean’s eyes, he sees green eternity.   
  
Sam mumbles “ _I will unravel the infinity loop_ ”, before he passes out.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sam wakes up in the back seat, with his face pressed against worn, black leather.  
  
Sam opens his eyes, brought back into life or death, and he gasps his first breathe, “Dean”.  
  
The car pulls over, and the next moment, the back door is opened and Dean crawls in, blanketing Sam’s body.   
  
It’s perfect. Not real. And Sam can’t hold it.   
  
He bawls, struggling to break free like a trapped animal, kicking and biting, but Dean’s grip is tight and secure, holding him until Sam’s voice and body give up on him.   
  
Sam stops moving and sets his gaze on Dean, raw hurt and betrayal in hazel eyes. _It could be real. Why the hell you aren’t?_  
  
Dean brings their foreheads together and says quietly, “It’s me.”  
  
Dean‘s tongue runs across Sam’s lips, and Dean repeats firmly, “It’s me.”  
  
Dean bites into Sam’s mouth and licks the blood off, insisting, “It’s me.”  
  
“Tell me,” Sam says, begging.  
  
The answer is throbbing in Dean’s veins, and Dean lets it out, “Sammy, it’s me.”   
  
Sam catches Dean’s pendant and tugs, bringing Dean down. Dean is perfect and real, and Sam loves him and has not lost him. Perfect and real.   
  
Sam stills underneath Dean, and Dean tries to breathe quietly to not disturb his sleep.   
  
Outside, the world is still lives on.  
  
  
  
  
  
Two weeks in tacky motel room with bad décor and crappy furniture. And they are not bored.   
  
Sam is better, and Dean is fine.   
  
“And isn’t this a surprise?” Sam whispers, smiling, dimples shown.  
  
In answer, Dean kisses him and fucks him into bed, whispering “Sammy” against Sam’s skin.  
  
And when it’s over, Sam whispers, “isn’t this?” His smile is blinding.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sam is behind the wheel, the air hot ( _Dean wants to point out “hot as Hell” but Sam won’t appreciate it_ ), the windows rolled down to catch the wind.   
  
Dean is singing along with _Led Zeppelin_ B side, and they’re back to the road. Back.   
  
 _Just another day_ turned on as if nothing’s happened.   
  
Dean’s cell phone rings, and the temperature shifts, cooling down. Sam frowns at Dean, realization tensing Sam’s body.   
  
“One day we’ll have to pick it up, man.” Dean says, brow rising, and Sam’s eyes turn into slits. _As if Sam is the only one who doesn’t get it._  
  
“He almost killed you, Dean,” Sam aims for a flat statement in his voice and fails, wincing. _Weak, Dean will see right through it._  
  
Sam’s gaze flickers to his brother in attempt to test the waters.  
  
Dean welcomes him with a hard glare, catching a deadly threat in his brother’s voice.   
  
Sam slowly counts from one to ten in his head and keeps his mouth shut, snapping his gaze back to the road, his skin tightening against the speech Dean prepares for him.  
  
Dean looks at Sam’s profile, stubbornness coloring his brother’s features, and he clenches his teeth, playing all the arguments in his head in order to win this case.   
  
Sam is the prosecutor, judgmental and taking things personally. Dean is the defense counsel, green and soliciting sympathy for his client.   
  
Bobby didn’t mean it, had no idea how it would turn out. But truth is, Bobby knew there was a chance of it happening. Bobby is a good hunter who considers all the options and possible sacrifices. Truth is, Bobby is a human after all. _Not like they are._  
  
“He’s a part of our family,” are Dean’s final words, his only argument.  
  
Sam stops the car, his knuckles white on the steering wheel while he slams on the brakes, and Dean makes a mental note to bitch about it later as right now his brother violates his mouth, giving Dean a dirty, bruising kiss.    
  
Dean goes along with it. Always goes along with his Sammy.   
  
Sam pulls away and brings words to support his actions, not taking “no” for an answer, eyes boring into Dean’s while his finger tips brush against Dean’s swollen lips, “He’s not your family, Dean. I am. He’s just a memory of our old life.”   
  
Sam’s answer burns all the bridges behind, and Dean huffs, annoyed, eyes studying his brother while Sam keeps very still.  
  
“Drive, bitch,” Dean grumbles finally.  
  
Sam turns away with a soft smile playing on his lips.  
  
Still, when Sam revs the engine and Dean relaxes against the passenger’s seat – Robert Plant screaming _Ramble on, and now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song_ – Dean flicks his wrist and throws the phone out the window.   
  
The cell phone bursts into the flames and is burned down before it hits the pavement with a cracking sound.

  
  
END  
  



End file.
